Fantasy & Science Fiction v008n05 (1955 05)

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space operas are all very well; hut for real honest swashbuckling adventure^
spiced with intellectual paradoxes and startling historical contrasts y give
me that rarer art form, the time opera. No man in science fiction today can
buckle a brighter swash or turn a prettier paradox than Foul Anders on y who
brings up to date the spirit of such classics as Jack Williamson s the le-
gion OF TIME and Malcolm Jameson s anachron, inc. series in this
novelet of rousing adventure and breathless storytelling. (And will you
recognise the hook in which Manse Everard finds the clue to one of Timers
most audacious crimesT)

Kime Tatrol

by POUL ANDERSON

MEN WANTED: 21-40, prep.
single, mil. or tech, exp., good phy-
sique, for high-pay work with for-
eign travel. Engineering Studies
Co., 305 E. 45, 9-12 & 2-6.

“The work is, you understand,
somewhat unusual,” said Mr. Gor-
don. “And confidential. I trust you
cajj keep a secret.?”

“Normally,” said Manse Everard.
“Depends on what the secret is, of
course.”

Mr. Gordon smiled. It was a
curious smile, a closed curve of
his lips which was not quite like
any Everard had seen before. He
spoke easy colloquial General Amer-
ican, and wore an undistinguished
business suit, but there was a for-
eigness over him which was more
than dark complexion, beardless
cheeks, and the incongruity of Mon-

golian eyes above a thin Caucasian
nose. It was hard to place.

“We’re not spies, if that’s what
you’re thinking,” he said.

Everard grinned. “Sorry. Please
don’t think I’ve gone as hysterical
as the rest of the country. I’ve never
had access to confidential data any-
way. But your ad mentioned over-
seas operations, and the way things
are . . . I’d like to keep my pass-
port, you understand.”

He was a big man, with blocky
shoulders and a slightly battered
face under crew-cut brown hair.
His papers lay before him: Army
discharge, the record of work in
several places as a mechanical en-
gineer. Mr. Gordon had seemed
barely to glance at them.

The office was ordinary, a desk
and a couple of chairs, a filing

3

4

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

cabinet, and a door leading off in
the rear. A window opened on the
banging traffic of New York, six
stories down.

“Independent spirit,” said the
man behind the desk. “I like that.
So many of them come cringing in,
as if they’d be grateful for a kick.
Of course, with your background
you aren’t desperate yet. You can
still get work, even in — ah, I
believe the current term is a rolling
readjustment.”

“I was interested,” said Everard.
“I’ve worked abroad, as you can
see, and would like to travel again.
But frankly, I still don’t have the
faintest idea what your outfit does.”

“We do a good many things,”
said Mr. Gordon. “Let me see . . .
you’ve been in combat. France and
Germany.” Everard blinked; his
papers had included a record of
medals, but he’d sworn the man had-
n’t had time to read them. “Um . . .
would you mind grasping those
knobs on the arms of your chair?
Thank you. Now, how do you react
- to physical danger?”

Everard bristled. “Look here — ”

Mr. Gordon’s eyes flicked to an
instrument on his desk: it was
merely a box with an indicator
needle and a couple of dials. “Never
mind. What are your views on in-
ternationalism ? ’

“Say, now — ”

“Communism? Fascism? Women?
Your personal ambitions? . . .
That’s all. You don’t have to an-
swer.”

“What the devil is this, anyway?”
snapped Everard.

“A bit of psychological testing.
Forget it. I’ve no interest in your
opinions except as they reflect basic
emotional orientation.” Mr. Gor-
don leaned back, making a bridge of
his fingers. “Very promising so far.
Now, here’s the set-up. We’re doing
work which is, as I’ve told you,
highly confidential. We ... ah
. . . we’re planning to spring a
surprise on our competitors.” He
chuckled. “Go ahead and report me
to the FBI if you wish. We’ve al-
ready been investigated and have
a clean bill of health. You’ll find
that we really do carry on world-
wide financial and engineering op-
erations. But there’s another aspect
of the job, and that’s the one we
want men for. I’ll pay you one
hundred dollars to go in the back
room and take a set of tests. It’ll
last abput three hours. If you don’t
pass, that’s the end of it. If you
do, we’ll sign you on, tell you the
facts, and start you training. Are
you game?”

Everard hesitated. He had a feel-
ing of being rushed. There was
more to this enterprise than an
office and one bland stranger. Still

Decision. “I’ll sign on after you’ve
told me what it’s all about.”

“As you wish,” shrugged Mr.
Gordon. “Suit yourself. The tests
will say whether you’re going to or
not, you know. We use some very
advanced techniques.”

TIME PATROL

5

That, at least, was entirely true.
Everard knew a little something
about modern psychology: encepha-
lographs, association tests, the Min-
nesota profile. He did not recognize
any of the hooded machines that
hummed and bhnked around him.
The questions which the assistant
— a white-skinned, completely hair-
less man of indeterminate age, with
a heavy accent and no facial ex-
pression — fired at him seemed ir-
relevant to anything. And what
was the metal cap he was supposed
to wear on his head, into what did
the wires from it lead?

He stole glances at the meter
faces, but the letters and numerals
were like nothing he had seen be-
fore. Not English, French, Russian,
Greek, Chinese, anything belonging
to 1954 A.D. Perhaps he was al-
ready beginning to realize the truth,
even then.

A curious self-knowledge grew
in him as the tests proceeded. Man-
son Emmert Everard, age 30, one-
time lieutenant in the U. S. Army
Engineers, design and production
experience in America, Sweden,
Arabia; still a bachelor, though with
increasingly wistful thoughts about
his married friends, no current girl,
no close ties of any kind; a bit of a
bibliophile, a dogged poker player,
fondness for sailboats and horses
and rifles, a camper and fisherman
on his vacations . . . He had known
it all, of course, but only as isolated
shards of fact. It was peculiar, this
sudden sensing of himself as an

integrated organism, this realiza-
tion that each characteristic was a
single inevitable facet of an overall
pattern.

He came out exhausted and wring-
ing wet. Mr. Gordon offered him
a cigarette and swept eyes rapidly
over a series of coded sheets which
the assistant gave him. Now and
then he muttered a phrase: “ —
Zeth-2o cortical . . . undifferenti-
ated evaluation here . . . psychic
reaction to antitoxin . . . weak-
ness in central coordination . .

He had slipped into an accent, a
hit and a treatment of vowels which
were like nothing Everard had
heard in a long experience of the
ways in which the Enghsh language
can be mangled.

It was half an hour before he
looked up again. Everard was getting
restless, faintly angry at this cava-
lier treatment, but interest had kept
him sitting quietly. Mr. Gordon
flashed improbably white teeth in a
broad, satisfied grin. “Ah ... at
last. Do you know, Pve had to
reject twenty-four candidates al-
ready? But you’ll do. You’ll defi-
nitely do.”

“Do for what?” Everard leaned
forward, conscious of his pulse pick-
ing up.

“The Patrol. You’re going to be
a kind of policeman.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Everywhere. And everywhen.
Brace yourself, this is going to be a
shock.

“You see, our company, while

6

legitimate enough, is only a front
and a source of funds. Our real busi-
ness is patrolling time.”

II

The Academy was in the Ameri-
can West. It was also in the Oligo-
cene period, a warm age of forests
and grasslands when man’s ratty
ancestors scuttled away from the
tread of giant mammals. It had been
built a thousand years ago; it would
be maintained for half a million —
long enough to graduate as many as
the Time Patrol would require —
and then be carefully demolished so
that no trace would remain. Later
the glaciers would come, and there
would be men, and in the year
19352 A.D. (the 7841st year of the
Morennian Triumph) these men
would find a way to travel through
time and return to the Oligocene to
establish the Academy.

It was a complex of long low
buildings, smooth curves and shift-
ing colors, spreading over a greens-
ward between enormous ancient
trees. Beyond it, hills and woods
rolled off to a great brown river,
and at night you could sometimes
hear the bellowing of titanotheres
or the distant squall of a sabertooth.

Everard stepped out of the time
shuttle — a big, featureless metal
box — with a dryness in his throat.
It felt like his first day in the Army,
twelve years ago — or fifteen to
twenty million years in the future,
if you preferred. Lonely, and help-
less, and wishing desperately for

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

some honorable way to go home. It
was a small comfort to see the other
shuttles, discharging a total of fifty-
odd young men and women. The
recruits moved slowly together,
forming an awkward clump. They
didn’t speak at first, but stood star-
ing at edch other. Everard recog-
nized a Hoover collar and a bowler;
the styles of dress and hairdo moved
up through 1954 and on. Where was
she from, the girl with the iridescent
close-fitting culottes and the green
lipstick and the fantastically waved
yellow hair? No . . . when?

A man of about 25 happened to
stand beside him — obviously Brit-
ish, from the threadbare tweeds
and the long, thin face. He seemed
to be hiding a truculent bitterness
under his carefully mannered ex-
terior. “Hell,” said Everard.
“Might as well get acquainted.” He
gave his name and origin.

“Charles Whitcomb, London,
1947,” other shyly. “I was

just demobbed — RAF — and this
looked good. Now I wonder.”

“It may be,” said Everard, think-
ing of the salary. Fifteen thousand a
year to start with! How did they
figure years, though? Must be in
terms of one’s actual duration-sense.

A man strolled in their direction.
He was a slender young fellow in a
skin-tight gray uniform with a deep-
blue cloak which seemed to twinkle,
as if it had stars sewn in. His face
was pleasant, smiling, and he spoke
genially with a neutral accent:
“Hello, there! Welcome to the

TIME PATROL

7

Academy. I take it you all know
English?” Everard noticed a man in
the shabby remnants of a German
uniform, and a Hindu, and others
who were probably from several
fDreign countries.

“We’ll use English, then, till
you’ve all learned Temporal.” The
man lounged easily, hands on his
hips. “My name is Dard Kelm. I
was born in — let me see — 9573
Christian reckoning, but I’ve made
a specialty of your period. Which,
by the way, extends from 1850 to
1975, though you’re all from some
in-between years. I’m your official
wailing wall, if something goes
wrong.

“This place is run along different
lines from what you’ve probably
been expecting. We don’t turn out
men en masse, so the elaborate
discipline of a classroom or an army
is not required. Each of you will
have individual as well as general
instruction. We don’t need to pun-
ish failure in studies, because the
preliminary tests have guaranteed
there won’t be any and made the
chance of failure on the job small.
Each of you has a high maturity
rating in terms of your particular
cultures. However, the variation in
aptitudes means that if we’re to de-
velop each individual to the fullest,
there must be personal guidance.

“There’s little formality here be-
yond normal courtesy. You’ll have
chances for recreation as well as
study. We never expect more of
you than you can give. I might add

that the hunting and fishing arc
still pretty good even in this neigh-
borhood, and if you fly just a few
hundred miles they’re fantastic.

“Now, if there aren’t any ques-
tions, please follow me and I’ll get
you settled.”

Dard Kelm demonstrated the
gadgets in a typical room. They were
the sort you would have expected
by, say, 2000 a . d : unobtrusive
furniture readily adjusted to a per-
fect fit, refresher cabinets, screens
which could draw on a huge library
of recorded sight and sound for
entertainment. Nothing too ad-
vanced, as yet. Each cadet had his
own room in the “dormitory” build-
ing; meals were in a central refec-
tory, but arrangements could be
made for private parties. Everard
felt the tension easing within him.

A welcoming banquet was held.
The courses were familiar, but the
silent machines which rolled up to
serve them were not. There was
wine, beer, an ample supply of
tobacco. Maybe something had been
slipped into the food, for Everard
felt as euphoric as the others. He
ended up beating out boogie on a
piano while half a dozen people
made the air hideous with attempts
at song.

Only Charles Whitcomb held
back, sipping a moody glass over in a
corner by himself. Dard Kelm was
tactful and did not try to force him
into joining.

Everard decided he was going to
like it. But the work and the or^

8

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ganization and the purpose were
still shadows.

“Time travel was discovered at a
period when the Chorite Heresi-
archy was breaking up,” said Kelm
in the lecture hall. “You’ll study the
details later; for now, take my word
that it was a turbulent age, when
commercial and genetic rivalry was
a tooth-and'claw matter between
giant combines, anything went, and
the various governments were pawns
in a galactic game. The time effect
was the byproduct of a search for a
means of instantaneous transporta-
tion, which some of you will realize
requires infinitely discontinuous
functions for its mathematical de-
scription ... as does travel into
the past. I won’t go into the theory
of it — you’ll get some of that in
the physics classes — but merely
state that it involves the concept of
infinite-valued relationships in a
continuum of 4N dimensions, where
N is the total number of particles in
the universe.

“Naturally, the group which dis-
covered this, the Nine, were aware
of the possibilities. Not only com-
mercial — trading, mining, and
other enterprises you can readily
imagine — but the chance of strik-
ing a death-blow at their enemies.
You see, time is variable; the past
can be changed — ”

“Question!” It was the girl from
1972, Elizabeth Gray, who was a
rising young physicist in her own
period.

“Yes.?” said Kelm politely.

“I think you’re describing a logi-
cally impossible situation. I’ll grant
the possibility of time travel, seeing
that we’re here, but an event cannot
both have happened and not have
happened. That’s self-contradic-
tory.”

“Only if you insist on a logic
which is not Aleph-sub-Aleph-val-
ued,” said Kelm. “What happens is
like this: suppose I went back in
time and prevented your father
from meeting your mother. You
would never have been born. That
portion of universal history would
read differently; it would always
have been different, though I would
retain memory of the ‘original’ state
of affairs.”

“Well, how a bout doing the same to
yourself.? Would you cease existing.?”

“No. Because I would belong to
the section of history prior to my
own intervention. Let’s apply it to
you. If you went back to, I would
guess, 1946, and worked to prevent
your parents’ marriage in 1947, you
would still have existed in that
year; you would not go out of ex-
istence just because you had influ-
enced events. The same would apply
even if you had only been in 1946
one microsecond before shooting the
man who would otherwise have be-
come your father.”

“But then I’d exist without —
without an origin!” she protested.
“I’d have life, and memories, and
• . . everything . . . though noth-
ing had produced them.”

TIME PATROL

9

Kelm shrugged. “What of it?
You insist that the causal law, or
strictly speaking the conservation-
of-energy law, involves only con-
tinuous functions. Actually, dis-
continuity is entirely possible.”

He laughed and leaned on the
pulpit. “Of course, there are im-
possibilities,” he said. “You could
not be your own mother, for in-
stance, because of sheer genetics. If
you went back and married your
former father, the children would
be different, none of them you,
because each would have only half
your chromosomes.”

Clearing his throat: “Let’s not
stray from the subject. You’ll learn
the details in other classes. I’m only
giving you a general background.
To continue: the Nine saw the
possibility of going back in time
and preventing their enemies from
ever having gotten started, even
from ever being born. But then the
Daneelians appeared.”

For the first time, his casual, half-
humorous air dropped, and he stood
there as a man v^ery naked and alone
in the presence of the unknowable.
He spoke quietly: “The Daneelians
are part of the future — our future,
more than a million years ahead of
me. Man has evolved into some-
thing . . . impossible to describe.
You’ll probably never meet a
Daneelian. If you ever should, it
will be . . . rather a shock. They
aren’t malignant — nor benevolent
— they are as far beyond anything
we can know or feel as we are be-

yond those insectivores who are
going to be our ancestors. It isn’t
good to meet that sort of thing face
to face.

“They were simply concerned
with protecting their own existence.
Time travel was old when they
emerged, there had been uncounta-
ble opportunities for the foolish and
the greedy and the mad to go back
and turn history inside out. They
did not wish to forbid the travel
— it was part of the complex which
had led to them — but they had
to regulate it. The Nine were pre-
vented from carrying out their
schemes. And the Patrol was set up
to police the time lanes.

“Your work will be mostly within
your own eras, unless you graduate
to unattached status. You will live,
on the whole, ordinary lives, family
and friends as usual; the secret part
of those lives will have the satisfac-
tions of good pay, protection, occa-
sional vacations in some very in-
teresting places, supremely worth-
while work. But you will always be
on call. Sometimes you will help
time travelers who have gotten into
difficulties, one way or another.
Sometimes you will work on mis-
sions, the apprehension of would-be
political or military or economic
conquistadors. Sometimes the Patrol
will accept damage as done, and
work instead to set up counteracting
influences in later periods which will
swing history back to the desired
track.

“I wish all of you luck.”

10

The first part of instruction was
physical and psychological. Everard
had never realized how his own life
had crippled him, in body and
mind; he was only half the man he
could be. It came hard, but in the
end it was joy to feel the utterly
controlled power of muscles, the
emotions which had grown deeper
for being disciplined, the swiftness
and precision of conscious thought.

Somewhere along the line, he was
thoroughly conditioned against re-
vealing anything about the Patrol,
even hinting at its existence, to any
unauthorized person. It was simply
impossible for him to do so, under
any influence, as impossible as jump-
ing to the moon. He also learned the
ins and outs of his zoth-century pub-
lic persona.

Temporal, the artificial language
with which Patrolmen from all ages
could communicate without being
understood by strangers, was a mira-
cle of logically organized expressive-
ness.

He thought he knew something
about combat, but he had to learn
the tricks and the weapons of fifty
thousand years, all the way from a
Bronze Age rapier to a cyclic blast
which could annihilate a continent.
Returned to his own era, he would
be given a limited arsenal, but he
might be called into other periods
and overt anachronism was rarely
permissible.

There was the study of history,
science, arts and philosophies, fine
details of dialect and mannerism.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

These last were only for the 1850-
1975 period; if he had occasion to go
elsewhen he would pick up special
instruction from a hypnotic condi-
tioner. It was such machines that
made it possible to complete his
training in three months.

He learned the organization of
the Patrol. Up “ahead” lay the dark
mystery which was Daneelian civ-
ihzation, but there was little direct
contact with it. The Patrol was set
up in semi-military fashion, with
ranks though without special formal-
ities. History was divided into
milieus, with a head office located in
a major city for a selected twenty-
year period (disguised by some
ostensible activity such as com-
merce) and various branch offices.
For his time, there were three
milieus: the Western world, head-
quarters in London; Russia, in
Moscow; Asia, in Peiping; each in
the easy-going years 1890-1910,
when concealment was less difficult
than in later decades, which were
staffed by smaller offices such as
Gordon’s. An ordinary attached
agent lived as usual in his own time,
often with an authentic job. Com-
munication between years was by
tiny robot shuttles or by courier,
with automatic shunts to keep such
messages from piling up at once.

The entire organization was so
vast that he could not really appre-
ciate the fact. He had entered some-
thing new and exciting, that was all
he truly grasped with all layers of
consciousness ... as yet.

TIME PATROL

II

He found his instructors friendly,
ready to gab. The grizzled veteran
who taught him to handle space-
ships had fought in the Martian
war of 3890. “You boys catch on
fairly quick,’’ he said. “It’s really
hell, though, teaching pre-industrial
people. We’ve quit even trying to
give them more than the rudiments.
Had a Roman here once — Caesar’s
time — fairly bright boy, too, but
he never got it through his head that
a machine can’t be treated like a
horse. As for those Babylonians —
time travel just w^asn’t in their
world-picture. We had to give them
a battle-of-the-gods routine.”

“What routine are you giving
us?” asked Whitcomb.

The spaceman regarded him nar-
rowly. “The truth,” he said at last.
“As much of it as you can take.”

“How did you get into this job?”

“Oh ... I was shot up off Jupi-
ter. Not much left of me. They
picked me up, built me a new body
— since none of my people were
alive, and I was presumed dead,
there didn’t seem much point in
going back home. No fun living
under the Guidance Corps. So I
took this position here. Good com-
pany, easy living, and furloughs in a
lot of eras.” The spaceman grinned.
“Wait till you’ve been to the de-
cadent stage of the Thi'rd Matri-
archy! You don’t know what fun
is.”

Everard said nothing. He was too
captured by the spectacle of Earth,
rolling enormous against the stars.

He made friends with his fellow
cadets. They were a congenial bunch
— naturally, with the same type
being picked for Patrollers, bold and
intelligent minds. There were a
couple of romances. Everard remem-
bered Portrait of Jenny ^ but these
were not so doomed. Marriage was
entirely possible, with the couple
picking some year in which to set
up housekeeping. He himself Hked
the girls, but kept his head.

Oddly, it was the silent and
morose Whitcomb with whom he
struck up the closest friendship.
There was something appealing
about the Englishman — he was so
cultured, such a thoroughly good
fellow, and still somehow lost.

They were out riding one day —
horses whose remote ancestors scam-
pered before their gigantic descend-
ants. Everard had a rifle, in the
hope of bagging a shovel- tusker he
had seen. Both wore Academy uni-
form, light grays which were cool
and silky under the hot yellow sun.

“I wonder we’re allowed to hunt,”
remarked the American. “Suppose
I shoot a sabertooth — in Asia, I
suppose — which was originally
slated to eat one of those pre-human
insec tivores. Won’t that change the
whole future?”

“No,” said Whitcomb. He had
progressed faster in studying the
theory of time travel. “You see, it’s
rather as if the continuum were a
mesh of tough rubber bands. It isn’t
easy to distort it, the tendency is
always for it to snap back to its.

12

/

uh, ‘former’ shape. One individual
insectivore doesn’t matter, it’s the
total genetic pool of their species
which led to man.

“Likewise, if I killed a sheep in
the Middle Ages, I wouldn’t wipe
out all its later descendants, maybe
all the sheep there were by 1940.
Rather, those would still be there,
unchanged down to their very genes
in spite of a different ancestry —
because over so long a period of
time, all the sheep, or men, are
descendants of all the earlier sheep
or men. Compensation, don’t you
see; somewhere along the line, some
other ancestor supplies the genes
you thought you had eliminated.

“In the same way . . . oh, sup-
pose I went back and prevented
Booth from killing Lincoln. Unless
I took very elaborate precautions, it
would probably happen that some-
one else did the shooting and Booth
got blamed anyway.

“That resilience of time is the
reason travel is permitted at all. If
you want to change things, you
have to go about it just right and
work very hard, usually.”

His mouth twisted. “Indoctrina-
tion! We’re told again and again
that if we interfere, there’s going to
be punishment for us. I’m not al-
lowed to go back and shoot that
ruddy bastard Hitler in his cradle.
I’m supposed to let him grow up as
he did, and start the war, and kill
my girl.”

Everard rode quietly for a while.
The only noise was the squeak of

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

saddle leather and the rustic of long
grass. “Oh,” he said at last. “I’m
sorry. Want to talk about it?”

“Yes. I do. But there isn’t much.
She was in the WAAF — Mary
Nelson — we were going to get mar-
ried after the war. She was in Lon-
don in ’44. November seventeenth,
I’ll never forget that date. The V-
bombs got her. She’d gone over to a
neighbor’s house in Streatham —
was on furlough, you see, staying
with her mother. That house was
blown up; her own home wasn’t
scratched.”

Whitcomb’s cheeks were blood-
less. He stared emptily before him.
“It’s going to be jolly hard not to
. . . not to go back, just a few
years, and see her at the very least.
Only see her again . . . No! I
don’t dare.”

Everard laid a hand on the man’s
shoulder, awkwardly, and they rode
on in silence.

The class moved ahead, each at
his own pace, but there was enough
compensation so that all graduated
together: a brief ceremony followed
by a huge party and many maudlin
arrangements for later reunions.
Then they went back to the same
years they had come from: the same
hour.

Everard accepted Gordon’s con-
gratulations, got a list of contem-
porary agents (several of them hold-
ing jobs in places like military in-
telligence), and returned to his
apartment. Later he might find

TIME PATROL

13

work arranged for him in some
sensitive listening post, but his
present assignment — for income-
tax purposes, “special consultant to
Engineering Studies Co.’’ — was
only to read a dozen papers a day
for the indications of time travel he
had been taught to spot, and hold
himself ready for a call.

As it happened, he made his own
first job.

Ill

It was a peculiar feeling to read
the headlines and know, more or less,
what was coming next. It took the
tense edge off, but added a sadness,
for this was a tragic era and he knew
what man must go through. He
could sympathize with Whitcomb’s
desire to go back and change his-
tory.

Only, of course, one man was too
limited. He could not change it for
the better, except by some freak —
most likely, he would bungle every-
thing. Go back and kill Hitler and
the Japanese and Soviet leaders —
maybe someone shrewder would
take their place. Maybe atomic
energy would lie fallow, and the
glorious flowering of the Venusian
Renaissance never happen. The
devil we know . . .

He looked out his window. Lights
flamed against a hectic sky; the
street crawled with automobiles and
a hurrying faceless crowd; he could
not see the towers of Manhattan
from here, but he knew they reared
arrogant toward the clouds. And it

was all one swirl on a huge resistless
river, sweeping thunderously from
the peaceful pre-human landscape
where he had been to the unimagi-
nable Daneelian future. How many
billions and trillions of human crea-
tures lived, laughed, wept, worked,
hoped, and died in its rushing cur-
rents!

Well , . . He sighed, stoked his
pipe, and turned back. A long walk
had not made him less restless; his
mind and body were impatient for
something to do. But it was late and
— he went over to the bookshelf,
picked out a volume more or less at
random, and started to read. It was
a collection of Victorian and Ed-
wardian stories.

A passing reference struck him.
Something about a tragedy at Ad-
dleton and the singular contents of
an ancient British barrow. Nothing
more. Hm. Time travel? He smiled
to himself.

Still —

No, he thought. This is crazy.

It wouldn’t do any harm to check
up, though. The incident was men-
tioned as occurring in the year
1894, in England. He could get out
back files of the London Times,
Nothing else to do . . . Probably
that was why he was stuck with this
dull newspaper assignment: so that
his mind, grown nervous from bore-
dom, would prowl into every con-
ceivable corner.

He was on the steps of the public
library as it opened.

The account was there, dated

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

June 25, 1894, and several days fol-
lowing. Addleton was a village in
Kent, distinguished chiefly by a
Jacobean estate belonging to Lord
Wyndham and a barrow of unknown
age. The nobleman, an enthusiastic
amateur archaeologist, had been ex-
cavating it, together with one James
Rotherhithe, an expert from the
British Museum who happened to
be a relative. Lord Wyndham had
uncovered a rather meager Saxon
burial chamber: a few artifacts
nearly rusted and rotted away,
bones of men and horses. There was
also a chest in surprisingly good
condition, containing ingots of an
unknown metal presumed to be a
lead or silver alloy. He fell deathly
ill, with symptoms of a peculiarly
lethal poisoning; Rotherhithe, who
had barely looked into the casket,
was not affected, and circumstantial
evidence suggested that he had
slipped the nobleman a dose of some
obscure Asiatic concoction. Scotland
Yard arrested the man when Lord
Wyndham died, on the 25th. Roth-
erhithe ’s family engaged the services
of a well-known consulting detec-
tive, who was able to show, by most
ingenious reasoning followed by
tests on animals, that the accused
was innocent and that a “deadly
emanation” from the chest was re-
sponsible. Box and contents had
been thrown into the English Chan-
nel. Congratulations all around.
Fadeout to happy ending.

Everard sat quietly in the long,
hushed room. The siory didn’t tell

enough. But it was highly sugges-
tive, to say the least.

Then why hadn’t the Victorian
office of the Patrol investigated? Or
had they? Probably. They wouldn’t
advertise their results, of course.

Still, he’d better send a memoran-
dum.

Returning to his apartment, he
took one of the little message shut-
tles given him, laid a report in it,
and set the control studs for the
London office, June 25, 1894. When
he pushed the final button, the box
vanished with a small whoosh of air
rushing in where it had been.

It returned in a few minutes.
Everard opened it and took out a
sheet of foolscap covered with neat
typing — yes, the typewriter had
been invented by then, of course.
He scanned it with the swiftness he
had learned.

Dear Sir:

In reply to yrs. of 6 September,
1954, beg to acknowledge re-
ceipt and would commend your
diligence. The affair has only just
begun at this end, and we are
most occupied at present with
preventing assassination of Her
Majesty, as well as the Balkan
Question, the 1890-22370 opium
trade with China, &c. While we
can of course settle current busi-
ness and then return to this, it is
well to avoid curiosa such as being
in two places at once, which
might be noticed. Would there-
fore much appreciate it if you and

TIME PATROL

some qualified British agent could
come to our assistance. Unless we
hear otherwise, we shall expect
you at i 4'B, Old Osborne Road,
on 26 June, 1894, at 12 midnight.

Believe me, Sir, yr. humble &
obt. svt.,

J. Mainwethering

There followed a note of the spatio-
temporal coordinates, incongruous
under all that floridity.

Everard called up Gordon, got an
okay, and arranged to pick up a
time hopper at the “company’s”
warehouse. Then he shot a note to
Charlie Whitcomb in 1947, got a
one- word reply — “Surely” — and
went off to get his machine.

It was reminiscent of a motorcycle
without wheels or handlebars. There
were three saddles and an antigrav-
ity propulsion unit. Everard set the
dials for Whitcomb’s era, touched
the main button, and found himself
in another warehouse.

London, 1947. He sat for a mo-
ment, reflecting that at this instant
he himself, seven years younger, was
attending college back in the States.
Then Whitcomb shouldered past
the watchman and took his hand.
“Good to see you again, old chap,”
he said. His haggard face lit up in
the curiously charming smile which
Everard had come to know. “And
so — Victoria, eh,?”

“Reckon so. Jump on.” Everard
re-set. This time he would emerge
in an office. A very private inner
office.

J5

It blinked into existence around
him. There was an unexpectedly
heavy effect to the oak furniture,
the thick carpet, the flaring gas
mantles. Electric lights were avail-
able, but Dalhousie & Roberts was
a notoriously solid, conservative im-
port house. Mainwethering himself
got out of a chair and came to greet
them: a large and pompous man
with bushy side whiskers and a
monocle. But he moved with an air
of strength, and his Oxford accent
was so cultivated that Everard could
hardly understand it.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Pleas-
ant journey, I trust.? Oh, yes . . .
sorry . . . you gentlemen are new
to the business, aren’t you.? Always
a little disconcerting at first. I re-
member how shocked I was on a
visit to the 21st century. Not British
at all . . . Only a res naturae^
though, only another facet of an
always surprising universe. You
must excuse my lack of hospitality,
but we really are frightfully busy.
Fanatic German up in 1917 learned
the time travel secret from an un-
wary anthropologist, stole a ma-
chine, has come to London to as-
sassinate Her Majesty. We’re having
the devil’s own time finding him.”

“Will you?” asked Whitcomb.

“Oh, yes. But deuced hard work,
gentlemen, especially when one
must operate secretly. I’d like to en-
gage a private inquiry agent, but the
only worthwhile one is entirely too
clever, he might easily deduce the
truth. His operating principle is

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

l6

that when one has eliminated the
impossible, whatever remains, how-
ever improbable, must be the truth
— and Tm afraid he’s very open-
minded about what constitutes the
improbable- but-possible.”

“I’ll bet he’s the same man who’s
working on the Addleton case — or
will be tomorrow,” said Everard,
“That isn’t important; we know
he’ll prove Rotherhithe’s innocence.
What matters is the strong proba-
bility that there’s been hanky-panky
going on back in Saxon times.”

“Yes . . . yes . . . hm. Clothes
here, gentlemen. And funds. And
papers, all prepared for you. I some-
times think you field agents don’t
appreciate how much work we have
to do in the offices for even the
smallest operation. Haw! Pardon.
Have you a plan of campaign?”

“Yes.” Everard was stripping off
his 20th-century garments. “I think
so. We both know enough about
the Victorian era to get by. Fll have
to remain American, though . . .
yes, I see you put that in my
papers.”

Mainwethering looked mournful.
“If the barrow incident has found
its way into a famous piece of litera-
ture as you say, we shall be getting a
hundred memoranda about it. Yours
happened to come first. Two others
have arrived since, from 1923 and
i960. Dear me, how I wish I were
allowed a robot secretary!”

Everard struggled with the awk-
ward suit. It fitted him well enough,
his measurements were on file in

this office, but he hadn’t appreciated
the relative comfort of his own
fashions before. Damn that waist-
coat! “Look here,” he said, “this
business may be quite harmless. In
fact, since we’re here now, it must
have been harmless. Eh?”

“As of now,” said Mainwethering.
“But consider. You two gentlemen
go back to Saxon times and find the
marauder. But you fail. Perhaps he
shoots you before you can shoot
him; perhaps he waylays those we
send after you. Then he goes on to
establish an industrial revolution or
whatever he’s after. History changes.
You, being back there before the
change-point, still exist ... if only
as cadavers . . . but we up here
have never been. This conversation
never took place. As Horace puts
it — ”

“Never mind!” laughed Whit-
comb. “We’ll investigate the barrow
first, in this year, then pop back
here and decide what’s next.” He
bent over and began transferring
equipment from a 20th-century
handbag to a Gladstonian monstros-
ity of flowered cloth. A couple of
guns, some physical and chemical
apparatus which his own age had
not invented, a tiny radio with
which to call up the office in case of
trouble.

Mainwethering consulted his
Bradshaw. “You can get the 8:23
out of Charing Cross tomorrow
morning,” he said. “Allow half an
hour to get from here to the sta-
tion.”

TIME PATROL

17

“Okay.” Everard and Whitcomb
remounted their hopper and van-
ished. Mainwethering sighed,
yawned, left instructions with his
clerk, and went home. At 7:45 a.m.
the clerk was there when the hopper
materialized.

This was the first moment that
the reality of time travel struck
home to Everard. He had known it
with the top of his mind, been duly
impressed, but it was, for his emo-
tions, merely exotic. Now, clopping
through a London he did not know
in a hansom cab (not a tourist-trap
anachronism, but a working ma-
chine, dusty and battered), smelling
an air which held more smoke than
a 20th-century city but no gasoline
fumes, seeing the crowds which
milled past — gentlemen in bowlers
and top hats, sooty navvies, long-
skirted women, and not actors but
real, talking, perspiring, laughing
and somber human beings off on real
business — it hit him with full force
that he was here. At this moment
his mother had not been born, his
grandparents were young couples
just getting settled to harness,
Grover Cleveland was President of
the United States and Victoria was
Queen of England, Kipling was
writing and the last Indian uprisings
in America yet to come. ... It
was hke a blow on the head.

Whitcomb took it more calmly,
but his eyes were always moving as
he drank in this day of England’s
glory. “I begin to understand,” he

murmured. “They never have agreed
whether this was a period of un-
natural, stuffy convention and thinly
veneered brutality, or the last flower
of Western civilization before it
started going to seed. Just seeing
these people makes me realize: it
was everything they have said about
it, good and bad, because it wasn’t a
simple thing happening to everyone
but millions of individual lives.”

“Sure,” said Everard. “That must
be true of every age.”

The train was almost familiar, not
very different from the carriages of
British Railways Anno 1954, which
gave Whitcomb occasion for sar-
donic remarks about inviolable tra-
ditions. In a couple of hours it let
them off at a sleepy village station
among carefully tended flower gar-
dens, where they engaged a buggy
to drive them to the Wyndham
estate.

A polite constable admitted them
after a few questions. They were
passing themselves off as archaeolo-
gists, Everard from America and
Whitcomb from Australia, who had
been quite anxious to meet Lord
Wyndham and were shocked by his
tragic end. Mainwethering, who
seemed to have tentacles every-
where, had suppHed them with
letters of introduction from a well-
known authority at the British
Museum. The inspector from Scot-
land Yard agreed to let them look
at the barrow — “the case is solved,
gentlemen, there are no more clues,
even if my colleague does not agree,

i8

hah, hah!” The private agent smiled
sourly and watched them with a
narrow eye as they approached the
mound; he was tall, thin, hawk-
faced, and accompanied by a burly,
mustached fellow with a limp who
seemed a kind of amanuensis.

The barrow was long and high,
covered with grass save where a raw
scar showed excavation to the fu-
neral chamber. This had been lined
with rough-hewn timbers but long
ago collapsed; fragments of what
had been wood still lay on the dirt.
“The newspapers mentioned some-
thing about a metal casket,” said
Everard. “I wonder if we might
have a look at it too?”

The inspector nodded agreeably
and led them off to an outbuilding
where the major finds were laid forth
on a table. Except for the box, they
were only fragments of corroded
metal and crumbled bone.

“Hm,” said Whitcomb. His gaze
was thoughtful on the sleek bare
face of the small chest. It shimmered
bluely, some time-proof alloy yet to
be discovered. “Most unusual. Not
primitive at all. You’d almost think
it had been machined, eh?”

Everard approached it warily. He
had a pretty good idea of what was
inside, and all the caution about
such matters natural to a citizen of
the sovdisant Atomic Age. Pulling a
counter out of his bag, he aimed it at
the box. Its needle wavered, not
much but —

“Interesting item there,” said the
inspector. “May I ask what it is?”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“An experimental electroscope,”
lied Everard. Carefully, he threw
back the lid and held the counter
above the box.

God! There was enough radio-
activity inside to kill a man in a
day! He had just a glimpse of heavy,
dull-shining ingots before he slammed
the lid down again. “Be careful with
that stuff,” he said shakily. Praise
heaven, whoever carried that devil’s
load had come from an age when
they knew how to block off radia-
tion!

The private detective had come
up behind them, noiselessly. A
hunter’s look grew on his keen face.
“So you recognize the contents,
sir?” he asked quietly.

“Yes . . . I think so.” Everard
remembered that Becquerel would
not discover radioactivity for almost
two years; even X-rays were still
more than a year in the future. He
had to be cautious. “That is > . .
in Indian territory I’ve heard stories
about an ore which is poisonous — ”

The detective’s companion cleared
his throat. “Indian, eh? Strange
land, India. When I was in — ”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said
the detective impatiently. “Surely
it’s obvious from the gentleman’s
accent that the Indians he refers to
are redskins. . . . Most interest-
ing.” He began to stuff a well- black-
ened clay pipe. “Like mercury
vapor, what?”

“So Rotherhithc placed that box
in the grave, did he?” muttered the
inspector.

TIME PATROL

19

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped
the detective. “I have three lines of
conclusive proof that Rotherhithe
is entirely innocent. What puzzled
me was the actual cause of his lord-
ship’s death. But if, as this gentle-
man says, there happened to be a
deadly poison buried in that mound
. . . to discourage grave-robbers? I
wonder, though, how the old Saxons
came by an American mineral. Per-
haps there is something to these
theories about early Phoenician
voyages across the Atlantic. I have
done a little research on a notion of
mine that there are Chaldean ele-
ments in the Cymric language, and
this seems to bear me out.”

Everard felt guilty about what
he was doing to the science of
archaeology. Oh, well, this box was
going to be dumped in the Channel
and forgotten. He and Whitcomb
made an excuse to leave as soon as
possible.

On the way back to London,
when they were safely alone in their
compartment, the EngUshman took
out a moldering fragment of wood.
“Slipped this into my pocket at the
barrow,” he said. “It’ll help us date
the thing. Hand me that radiocar-
bon counter, will you?” He popped
the wood into the device, turned
some knobs, and read off the an-
swer. “One thousand, four hundred
and thirty years, plus or minus
about ten. The mound went up
around . . . um . . . 464 a.d.,
then, when the Saxons were just
getting estabhshed in Kent.”

“If those ingots are stiU that
helhsh after so long,” murmured
Everard, “I wonder what they were
like originally? Hard to see how you
could have that much activity with
such a long half-Hfe, but then, up in
the future they can do things with
the atom my period hasn’t dreamed
of.”

Turning in their report to Main-
wethering, they spent a day sight-
seeing while he sent messages across
time and activated the great ma-
chine of the Patrol. Everard was
interested in Victorian London, al-
most captivated in spite of the
grime and poverty. Whitcomb got a
faraway look in his eyes. “I’d have
liked to hve here,” he said.

“Yeah . . . with their medicine
and dentistry?”

“And no bombs falling.” Whit-
comb’s answer held an angry defi-
ance.

Mainwethering had arranger^ients
made when they returned to his
office. Puffing a fat cigar, he strode
up and down, pudgy hands clasped
behind his tailcoat, and rattled off
the story.

“Metal been identified with high
probability. Isotopic fuel from
around the 30th century. Checkup
reveals that a merchant from the
Ing Empire was visiting year 2987
to barter his raw materials for their
synthrope, secret of which had been
lost in the Interregnum. Naturally,
he took precautions, tried to pass
himself off as a trader from the
Saturnian System, but nevertheless

20

disappeared. So did his time shuttle.
Presumably someone in 2987 found
out what he was and murdered him
for his machine. Patrol notified, but
no trace of machine. Finally recov-
ered from 5th'century England by
two Patrolmen named, haw!, Ever-
ard and Whitcomb.”

“If we’ve already succeeded, why
bother?” grinned the American.

Mainwethering looked shocked.
“But my dear fellow! You have not
already succeeded. The job is yet to
do, in terms of your and my dura-
tion-sense. And please do not take
success for granted merely because
history records it. Time is not rigid;
man has free will. If you fail, history
will change and will not ever have
recorded your success; I will not
have told you about it. That is
undoubtedly what happened, if I
may use the term happenedy in the
few cases where the Patrol has a
record of failure. Those cases are
still being worked on, and if success
is achieved at last, history will be
changed and there will always have
been success. Tempus non nascituty
fity if I may indulge in a slight
parody.”

“All right, all right, I was only
joking,” said Everard. “Let’s get
going. Tempus fugitT He added an
extra “g” with malice aforethought,
and Mainwethering winced.

It turned out that even the Patrol
knew little about the dark period
when the Romans had left England,
the Romano-British civilization was
crumbling, and the Saxons were

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

moving in. It had never seemed an
important one. The office at Lon-
don, 1000 A.D., sent up what ma-
terial it had, together with suits of
clothes that would get by. Everard
and Whitcomb spent an hour un-
conscious under the hypnotic educa-
tors, to emerge with fluency in
Latin and in several Saxon and
Jutish dialects, and with a fair
knowledge of the mores.

The clothes were awkward: trou-
sers, shirts, and coats of rough wool,
leather cloaks, an interminable num-
ber of thongs and laces. Long flaxen
wigs covered modern haircuts; a
clean shave would pass unnoticed,
even in the 5th century. Whitcomb
carried an ax, Everard a sword, both
made to measure of high-carbon
steel, but put more reliance on the
little 26th-century sonic stun guns
tucked under their coats. Armor
had not been included, but the time
hopper had a pair of motorcycle
crash helmets in one saddlebag:
these would not attract much at-
tention in an age of homemade
equipment, and were a good deal
stronger and more comfortable than
the real thing. They also stowed
away a picnic lunch and some earth-
ernware jugs full of good Victorian
ale.

“Excellent.” Mainwethering
pulled a watch out of his pocket and
consulted it. “It shall expect you
back here at . . . shall we say four
o’clock? I will have some armed
guards on hand, in case you have a
prisoner along, and we can go out

TIME PATROL

21

to tea afterward.” He shook their
hands. “Good hunting!”

Everard swung onto the time
hopper, set the controls for 464 a.d.
at Addleton Barrow, a summer mid-
night, and threw the switch.

IV

There was a full moon. Under it,
the land lay big and lonely, with a
darkness of forest blocking out the
horizon. Somewhere a wolf howled.
The mound was there yet, they had
come late.

Rising on the antigravity unit,
they peered across a dense, shadowy
wood. There was a thorp about a
mile from the barrow, one hall of
hewn timber and a cluster of smaller
buildings around a courtyard. In the
drenching moonlight, it was very
quiet.

“Cultivated fields,” observed
Whitcomb. His voice was hushed in
the stillness. “TTie Saxons were
mostly yeomen, you know, who
came here looking for land. Imagine
the Britons were pretty well cleared
out of this area some years ago.”

“We’ve got to find out about that
burial,” said Everard. “Shall we go
back and locate the moment the
grave was made.? — No, it might
be safer to inquire now, at a later
date when whatever excitement
there was has died down. Say to-
morrow morning.”

Whitcomb nodded, and Everard
brought the hopper down into the
concealment of a thicket and jumped'
up five hours. The sun was bfinding

in the northeast, dew was still on
the long grass, and the birds were
making an unholy racket. Dis-
mounting, the agents sent the hop-
per shooting up at fantastic velocity,
to hover ten miles aboveground and
come to them when called on a
midget radio built into their hel-
mets.

They approached the thorp
openly, whacking off the savage-
looking dogs which came snarling
at them with the flat of sword and
ax. Entering the courtyard, they
found it unpaved but richly car-
peted with mud and manure. A
couple of naked, tow-headed chil-
dren gaped at them from a hut of
earth and wattles. A girl who was
sitting outside milking a scrubby
little cow let out a small shriek; a
thick' built, low- browed farmhand
swilling the pigs grabbed for his
spear. Wrinkling his nose, Evei;ard
wished that some of the Noble
Nordic enthusiasts of his century
could visit this one.

A gray-bearded man with an ax
in his hand appeared in the hall en-
trance. Like everyone else of this
period, he was several inches shorter
than the 20th-century average. He
studied them warily before wishing
them good morning.

Everard smiled politely. “I hight
Uffa Hundingsson, and my brother
is Knubbi,” he said. “We are mer-
chants from Jutland, come hither
to trade at Canterbury.” (He gave
it the present name, Cant-wara-
byrig.) “Wandering from the place

22

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

where our ship is beached, we lost
our way, and after fumbling about
all night found your home.”

“I hight Wulfnoth, son of Ael-
fred,” said the yeoman. “Enter and
break your fast with us.”

The hall was big and dim and
smoky, full of a chattering crowd:
Wulfnoth’s children, their spouses
and children, dependent carls and
their wives and children and grand-
children. Breakfast consisted of
great wooden trenchers of half-
cooked pork. It was not hard to
get a conversation going; these peo-
ple were as gossipy as isolated yokels
anywhen. The trouble was with
inventing plausible accounts of what
was going on in Jutland. Once or
twice Wulfnoth, who was no fool,
caught them in some mistake, but
Everard said firmly: “You have
heard a falsehood. News takes
strange forms when it crosses the
sea.” He was surprised to learn how
much contact there still was with
the old countries. But the talk of
weather and crops was not much
different from the kind he knew
in the 2oth'century Middle West.

Only later was he able to slip in a
question about the barrow. Wulf-
noth frowned, and his plump, tooth-
less wife hastily made a protective
sign toward a rude wooden idol. “It
is not good to speak of such things,”
muttered the Saxon. “J would the
wizard had not been buried on my
land. But he was close to my father,
who died last year and would hear
of naught else.”

“Wizard?” Whitcomb pricked up
his ears. “What tale is this?”

“Well, you may as well know,”
grumbled Wulfnoth. “He was a
stranger hight Stane, who appeared
in Canterbury some six years ago.
He must have been from far away,
for he spoke not the English or
British tongues, but King Hengist
guested him and eftsoons he learned.
He gave the king strange but goodly
gifts, and was a crafty redesman,
on whom the king came more and
more to lean. None dared cross him,
for he had a wand which threw
thunderbolts and had been seen to
cleave rocks and once, in battle with
the Britons, burn men down. There
are those who thought he was
Woden, but that cannot be since he
died.”

“Ah, so.” Everard felt a tingle of
eagerness. “And what did he whilst
yet he lived?”

“Oh ... he gave the king wise
redes, as I have said. It was his
thought that we of Kent should
cease thrusting back the Britons and
calling in ever more of our kinsmen
from the old country; rather, we
should make peace with them. He
thought that with our strength and
their Roman learning, we could to-
gether shape a mighty realm. He
may have been right, though I for
one see little use in all these books
and baths, to say naught of that
weird cross-god they have. . . .
Well, anyhow, he was slain by un-
knowns three years ago, and buried
here with sacrifices and such of his

TIME PATR<H.

23

possessions as his foes had not reaved.
We give him an offering twice a
year, and I must say his ghost has
not made trouble for us. But still am
I somewhat uneasy about it.”

“Three years, eh?” breathed
Whitcomb. “I see. . .

It took a good hour to break
away, and Wulfnoth insisted on
sending a boy along to guide them
to the river. Everard, who didn’t
feel like walking that far, grinned
and called down the hopper. As he
and Whitcomb mounted it, he said
gravely to the bulging-eyed lad:
“Know that thou hast guested
Woden and Thunor, who will here-
after guard thy folk from harm.”
They jumped three years back.

“Now comes the rough part,” he
said, peering out of the thicket at
the nigh ted thorp. The mound was
not there now, the wizard Stane
was still alive. “It’s easy enough to
put on a magic show for a kid, but
we’ve got to extract this character
from the middle of a big, tough
town where he’s the king’s right-
hand man. And he has a blast-ray.”

“Apparently we succeeded — or
will succeed,” said Whitcomb.

“Nope. It’s not irrevocable, you
know. If we fail, Wulfnoth will be
telling us a different story three
years from now, probably that Stane
is there — he may kill us twice!
And England, pulled out of the
Dark Ages into a neoclassical cul-
ture, won’t evolve into anything
you’d recognize by 1894. ... I
wonder what Stane’s game is.”

He lifted the hopper and sent it
through the sky toward Canterbury.
A night wind whistled- darkly past
his face. Presently the town loomed
near, and he grounded in a copse.
The moon was white on the half-
ruined Roman walls of ancient
Durovernum, dappled black on the
newer earth and wood of the Saxon
repairs. Nobody would get in after
sunset.

Again the hopper brought them
to daytime — near noon — and was
sent skyward. His breakfast, two
hours ago and three years in the
future, felt soggy as Everard led
the way onto a crumbling Roman
road and toward the city. There
was a goodly traffic, mostly farmers
driving creaky oxcarts of produce
in to market. A pair of vicious-
looking guards halted them at the
gate and demanded their business.
This time they were the agents of a
trader on Thanet who had sent
them to interview various artisans
here. The hoodlums looked surly
till Whitcomb slipped them a couple
of Roman coins; then th^ spears
went down and they went past.

The city brawled and bustled
around them, though again it was
the ripe smell which impressed
Everard most. Among the jostling
Saxons, he spotted an occasional
Romano- Briton, disdainfully pick-
ing a way through the muck and
pulling his shabby tunic clear of
contact with these savages. It would
have been funny if it weren’t
pathetic.

24

There was an extraordinarily
dirty inn filling the moss-grown
ruins of what had been a marble
town house. Everard and Whitcomb
found that their money was of high
value, here where trade was still
mostly in kind. By standing a few
rounds of drinks, they got all the
information they wanted. King
Hengist’s hall was near the middle
of town . . . not really a hall, an
old building which had been de-
plorably prettied up under the
direction of that outlander Stane
. . . not that our good and doughty
king is any pantywaist, don’t get me
wrong, stranger . . . why, only last
month . . . oh, yes, Stane! He
lived in the house right next to it.
Strange fellow, some said he was a
god ... he certainly had an eye
for the girls . . . yes, they said he
was behind all this peace- talk with
the Britons. More and more of
those slickers coming in every day,
it’s getting so an honest man can’t
let a little blood without ... of
course, Stane is very wise, I wouldn’t
say anything against him, under-
stand, after all he can throw light-
ning . . .

“So what do we do?” asked
Whitcomb, back in their own room.
“Go on in and arrest him?”

“No ... I doubt if that’s possi-
ble,” said Everard cautiously. “I’ve
got a sort of a plan, but it depends
on guessing what he really intends.
Let’s see if we can’t get an audi-
ence.” As he got off the straw tick
which served for a bed, he was

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

scratching. “Damn! What this pe-
riod needs isn’t literacy but flea
powder!”

The house had been carefully
renovated, its white, porticoed fa-
cade almost painfully clean against
the grubbiness around it. Two
guards lounged on the stairs, snap-
ping to alertness as the agents ap-
proached. Everard fed them money
and a story about being a visitor
who had news that would surely
interest the great wizard. “Tell
him, ‘Man from tomorrow.’ ’Tis a
password. Got it?”

“It makes not sense,” complained
the guard.

“Passwords need not make sense,”
said Everard with hauteur.

The Saxon clanked off, shaking
his head dolefully. All these new-
fangled notions!

“Are you sure this is wise?” mut-
tered Whitcomb. “He’ll be on the
alert now, you know.”

“I also know a VIP isn’t going to
waste time on just any stranger.
This business is urgent, man! So
far, he hasn’t accomplished anything
permanent, not even enough to be-
come a lasting legend; but if Hengist
should make a genuine union with
the Britons — ”

The guard returned, grunted
something, and led . them up the
stairs and across the peristyle. Be-
yond was the atrium, a good-sized
room where modern bearskin rugs
jarred with chipped marble and
faded mosaics. There was a man
standing before a rude wooden

TIME PATROL

25

couch. As they entered, he raised his
hand, and Everard saw the slim
barrel of a 3 oth-century blast-ray.

“Keep your hands in sight and
well away from your sides,” said the
man gently. “Otherwise I shall be-
like have to smite you with a thun-
derbolt.”

Whitcomb sucked in a sharp, dis-
mayed breath, but Everard had
been rather expecting this. Even so,
there was a cold knot in his stomach.

The wizard Stane was a small man,
dressed in a fine embroidered tunic
which must have come from some
British villa. His body was lithely
muscled, his head large, with a face
of rather engaging ugliness under a
shock of black hair. There was a
grin of tension on his lips.

“Search them, Eadgar,” he or-
dered. “Take out aught they may
bear in their clothing.”

The Saxon’s frisking was clumsy,
but he found the stunners and
tossed them to the floor. “Thou
mayst go,” said Stane.

“Is there no danger from them,
my lord?” asked the soldier.

Stane grinned wider. “With this
in my hand? Nay, go.” Eadgar
shambled out. At least we still have
sword and ax^ thought Everard. But
they're not much use with that thing
holding at us,

“So you come from tomorrow,”
murmured Stane. A sudden film of
sweat glistened on his forehead. “I
wondered about that. Speak you the
later English tongue?”

Whitcomb opened his mouth,
but Everard, improvising as he went
with his life at wager, beat him to
the draw. “What tongue mean
you?”

“Thus- wise.” Stane broke into an
English which had a peculiar accent
but was recognizable to 20th-cen-
tury ears: “Ih want know where an^
when y’re from, what y’r ’tentions
air, an’ all else. Gimme d’ facts 't
Ih’ll burn y’ doon.”

Everard shook his head. “Nay,”
he answered in Saxon. “I under-
stand you not.” Whitcomb, threw
him a glance and then subsided,
ready to follow the American’s lead.
Everard ’s mind raced; under the
brassiness of desperation, he knew
that death waited for his first mis-
take. “In our day we talked thus: — ”
And he reeled off a paragraph of
Mexican-Spanish chatter, garbling
it as much as he dared.

“So . . . a Latin tongue!” Stane’s
eyes flamed. The blaster shook in
his hand. ''When be you from?”

“The 20th century after Christ,
and our land hight Lyonesse. It lies
across the western ocean — ”

“America!” It was a gasp. “Was
it ever called America?”

“No. I wot not what you speak
of.”

Stane shuddered uncontrollably.
Mastering himself: “Know you the
Roman tongue?”

Everard nodded.

Stane laughed nervously. “Then
let us speak that. If you knew how
sick I am of this Saxon hog-lan^

26

guage — ** His Latin was a little
broken, obviously picked up in this
century, but fluent enough. He
waved the blaster. “Pardon my dis-
courtesy with this. But I have to be
careful.”

“Naturally,” said Everard. “Ah
. . . my name is Mencius, and my
friend is Juvenalis. We came from
the future, as you have guessed; we
are historians, and time travel has
just been invented.”

“Properly speaking, I am Rozher
Schtein, from the year 2987. Have
you . . . heard of me?”

“Who else?” said Everard. “We
came back looking for this mys-
terious Stane who seemed to be one
of the crucial figures of history. We
suspected he might have been a — ”
Everard fumbled in his Latin vocab-
ulary for an expression meaning time
traveler^ and finally improvised one.
“ — peregrinator temporis. Now we
know.”

“Three years.” Schtein began
pacing feverishly, the blaster swing-
ing in his hand; but he was too far
off for a sudden leap. “Three years
I have been here. If you knew how
often I have lain awake, wondering
if I would succeed — Tell me, is
your world united?”

“The world and the planets,” said
Everard. “It has been for a long
time.” Inwardly, he shivered. His
life hung on^is ability to guess what
Schtein’s pl&f were.

“And are you a free people?”

“We are. That is to say, the Em-
peror presides, but the Senate makes

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the laws and it is elected by the peo-
ple.”

There was an almost holy look on
the gnomish face, transfiguring it.
“As I dreamed,” whispered Schtein.
“Thank you.”

“So you came back from your
period to . . . create history?”

“No,” said Schtein. “To change
it.”

Words tumbled out of him, as if
he had wished to speak and dared
not for many years: “I was a his-
torian too. By chance I met a man
who claimed to be a merchant from
the Saturnian moons, but since I had
lived there once, I saw through the
fraud. Investigating, I learned the
truth. He was a time traveler from
the very far future.

“You must understand, the age I
lived in was a terrible one, and as a
psychographic historian I realized
that the war, poverty, and tyranny
which cursed us were not due to any
innate evil in man, but to simple
cause and effect. Machine technol-
ogy had risen in a world divided
against itself, and war grew to be an
ever larger and more destructive en-
terprise. There had been periods of
peace, even fairly long ones: but the
disease was too deep-rooted, conflict
was a part of our very civilization.
My family had been wiped out in a
Venusian raid, I had nothing to lose.
I took the time machine after . . .
disposing of its owner.

“The great mistake, I thought,
had been made back in the Dark
Ages. Rome had united a vast cm-

TIME PATROL

27

pire in peace, and out of peace justice
can always arise. But Rome ex-
hausted herself in the effort, and was
now falling apart. The barbarians
coming in were vigorous, they could
do much, but they were quickly
corrupted.

“But here is England. It has been
isolated from the rotting fabric of
Roman society. The Saxons are en-
tering, filthy oafs but strong and
willing to learn. In my history, they
simply wiped out British civilization
and then, being intellectually help-
less, were swallowed up by the new
— and evil — civilization called
Western. I want to see something
better happen.

“It hasn’t been easy. You would
be surprised how hard it is to sur-
vive in a different age until you
know your way around, even if
you have modern weapons and in-
teresting gifts for the king. But I
have Hengist’s respect now, and in-
creasingly more of the confidence
of the Britons. I can unite the two
peoples in a common war on the
Piets. England will be one kingdom,
with Saxon strength and Roman
learning, powerful enough to stand
off all invaders. Christianity is in-
evitable, of course, but I will see to
it that it is the right kind of Chris-
tianity, one which will educate and
civilize men without shackling their
minds.

“Eventually England will be in a
position to start taking over on the
Continent. Finally . . . one world.
I will stay here long enough to get

the anti-Pictish union started, then
vanish with a promise to return
later. If I reappear at, say, fifty-year
intervals for the next several cen-
turies, I shall be a legend, a god,
who can make sure they stay on the
right track.”

“I have read much about St.
Stanius,” said Everard slowly.

“And I won!” cried Schtein. “I
gave peace to the world.” Tears
were on his cheeks.

Everard moved closer. Schtein
pointed the blast-ray at his belly,
not yet quite trusting him. Everard
circled casually, and Schtein swiv-
eled to keep him covered. But the
man was too agitated by the seeming
proof of his own success to remem-
ber Whitcomb. Everard threw a
look over his shoulder at the Eng-
lishman.

Whitcomb hurled his ax. Everard
dove for the floor. Schtein screamed,
and the blast-ray sizzled. The ax
had cloven his shoulder. Whitcomb
sprang, getting a grip on his gun
hand. Schtein howled, struggling to
force the blaster around. Everard
jumped up to help. There was a
moment of confusion.

Then the blaster went off again,
and Schtein was suddenly a dead
weight in their arms. Blood drenched
their coats from the hideous opening
in his chest.

The two guards came running in.
Everard snatched his stunner off the
floor and thumbed the ratchet up to
full intensity. A flung spear grazed
his arm. He fired twice, and the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

28 -

burly forms crashed. They’d be out
for hours.

Crouching a moment, Everard
listened. A feminine scream sounded
from the inner chambers, but no
one was entering at the door. “I
guess we’ve carried it off,” he
panted.

“Yes.” Whitcomb looked dully
at the corpse sprawled before him.
It seemed pathetically small.

“I didn’t mean for him to die,’^
said Everard. “But time is . . ,
tough. It was written, I suppose.”

“Better this way than a Patrol
court and the exile planet,” said
Whitcomb.

“Technically, at least, he was a
thief and a murderer,” said Everard.
“But it was a great dream he had.”

“And we upset it.”

“History might have upset it.
Probably would have. One man just
isn’t powerful enough, or wise
enough. I think most human misery
is due to well-meaning fanatics like
him there.”

“So we just fold our hands and
take what comes.”

“Think of all your friends, up in
1947. They’d never even have
existed.”

Whitcomb took off his cloak and
tried to wipe the blood from his
clothes.

“Let’s get going,” said Everard.
He trotted through the rear portal.
A frightened concubine watched
him with large eyes.

He had to blast the lock off an
inner door. The room beyond held

an Ing-model time shuttle, a few
boxes with weapons and supplies,
some books. Everard loaded it all
into the machine except the fuel
chest. That had to be left, so that
up in the future he would learn of
this and come back to stop the man
who would be God.

“Suppose you take this to the
warehouse in 1894,” he said. “I’ll
ride our hopper back and meet you
at the office.”

Whitcomb gave him a long stare.
The man’s face was drawn. Even as
Everard watched him, it stiffened
with resolution.

“All right, old chap,” said the
Englishman. He smiled, almost wist-
fully, and clasped Everard ’s hand.
“So long. Good luck.”

Everard stared after him as he
entered the great steel cylinder.
That was an odd thing to say, when
they’d be having tea up in 1894 in a
couple of hours.

Worry nagged him as he went out
of the building and mingled with the
crowd. Charlie was a peculiar cuss.
Well —

No one interfered with him as he
left the city and entered the thicket
beyond. He called the time hopper
back down and, in spite of the need
for haste lest someone come to see
what kind of giant bird had landed,
cracked a jug of ale. He needed it
badly. Then he took a last look at
Saxon England and jumped up to
1894.

Mainwethering and his guards
were there as promised. The officer

TIME PATROL

29

looked alarmed at the sight of one
man arriving with blood clotting
across his garments, but Everard
gave him a reassuring report.

It took a while to wash up, change
clothes, and deliver a full account to
the secretary. By then, Whitcomb
should have arrived in a hansom, but
there was no sign of him. Main-
wethering called the warehouse up
on the radio, and turned back with
a frown. “He hasn’t come yet,” he
said. “Could something have gone
wrong?”

“Hardly. Those machines are fool-
proof.” Everard gnawed his lip. “I
don’t know what the matter is.
Maybe he misunderstood and went
up to 1947 instead.”

An exchange of notes revealed
that Whitcomb had not reported in
at that end either. Everard and
Mainwethering went out for their
tea. There was still no trace of Whit-
comb when they got back.

“I had best inform the field
agency,” said Mainwethering. “Eh,
what? They should be able to find
him.”

“No . . . wait.” Everard stood
for a moment, thinking. The idea
had been germinating in him for
some time. It was dreadful.

“Have you a notion?”

“Yes . . . sort of.” Everard be-
gan shucking his Victorian suit. His
hands trembled. “Get my 20th-cen-
tury clothes, will you? I may be
able to find him by myself.”

“The Patrol will want a prelimi-
nary report of your idea and inten-

tions,” reminded Mainwethering.

“To hell with the Patrol,” said
Everard.

V

London, 1944. The early winter
night had fallen, and there was a
thin cold wind blowing down streets
which were gulfs of darkness. Some-
where came the dull crash of an ex-
plosion, and there was a fire burning,
great red banners flapping above the
huddled roofs.

Everard left his hopper on the
sidewalk — nobody was out when
the V-bombs were falling — had
groped slowly through a shuddering
murk. November 17; his trained
memory had called up the date for
him. Mary Nelson had died this day.

He found a public phone booth on
the corner and looked in the direc-
tory. There were a lot of Nelsons,
but only one Mary listed for the
Streatham area. That would be the
mother, of course — he had to guess
that the daughter would have the
same name. Nor did he know the
time at which the bomb had struck,
but there were ways to learn that.

Fire and thunder roared at him as
he came out. He flung himself on his
belly while glass whistled where he
had been. November 17, 1944. The
younger Manse Everard, lieutenant
in the United States Army Engin-
eers, was somewhere across the Chan-
nel, near the German guns. He
couldn’t recall exactly where, just
then, and did not stop to make the
effort. It didn’t matter. He knew he

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

30

was going to survive that danger.

The new blaze was a lurid red
dance behind him as he ran for his
machine. He jumped aboard and
took off into the air. High above
London, he saw only a vast darkness
spotted with flame. WalpUrgisnacht,
and all hell let loose on earth!

He remembered Streatham well, a
dreary stretch of brick inhabited by
little clerks and greengrocers and
mechanics, the very petite bourgeoi-
sie who had stood up and fought to a
standstill the power which had con-
quered Europe. There had been a
girl living there, back in 1943 . . .
eventually she married someone
else.

Skimming low, he tried to find
the address. A volcano erupted not
far oflF. His mount staggered in the
air, he almost lost his seat. Hurrying
toward the place, he saw a house
tumbled and smashed and flaming.
It was only three blocks from the
Nelson home. He was too late.

No! He checked the time — just
10:30 — and jumped back two hours.
It was still night, but the slain house
stood solid in the gloom. Briefly, he
wanted to warn those inside. But
no — all over the world, millions of
people were dying. He was not
Schtein, to take history on his shoul-
ders.

Then he grinned wryly, dis-
mounted, and walked through the
gate. He was not a damned Daneel-
ian either. He knocked on the door,
and it opened. A middle-aged
woman looked at him through the

murk, and he realized it was odd to
see an American in civilian clothes
here.

“Excuse me,’* he said. “Do you
know Miss Mary Nelson?”

‘‘Why . . . yes.” Hesitation.
“She lives nearby. She’s coming over
soon. Are you a friend?”

Everard nodded. “She sent me
here with a message for you, Mrs. — ”

“Enderby.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Enderby. I’m ter-
ribly forgetful. Look, Miss Nelson
wanted me to say she’s very sorry
but she can’t come. However, she
wants you and your entire family
over at 10:30.”

“All of us, sir? But the chil-
dren — ”

“By all means, the children too.
Every one of you. She has a very
special surprise arranged, something
she can only show you then. All of
you have to be there.”

“Well ... all right, sir, if she
says so.”

“All of you at 10:30, without fail.
I’ll see you then, Mrs. Enderby.”
Everard nodded and walked back to
the street.

He had done what he could. Next
was the Nelson house. He rode his
hopper three blocks down, parked it
in the gloom of an alley, and walked
up to the house. He was guilty too
now, as guilty as Schtein. He won-
dered what the exile planet was like.

There was no sign of the Ing shut-
tle, and it was too big to conceal. So
Charlie hadn’t arrived yet. He’d
have to play by ear till then.

TIME PATROL

31

As he knocked on the door, he
wondered what his saving of the
Enderby family would mean. Those
children would grow up, have chil-
dren of their own — quite insignifi-
cant middle-class Britons, no doubt,
but somewhere in the centuries to
come an important man would be
born or fail to be born. Of course,
time was not very flexible. Except in
rare cases, the precise ancestry didn’t
matter, only the broad pool of hu-
man genes and human society. Still,
this might be one of those rare cases.

A young woman opened the door
for him. She was a pretty little girl,
not spectacular but nice-looking in
her trim uniform. “Miss Nelson.^”

“Yes . . .r

“My name is Everard. I’m a
friend of Charlie Whitcomb. May I
come in? I have a rather surprising
bit of news for you.”

“I was about to go out,” she said
apologetically.

“No, you weren’t.” Wrong line;
she was stiffening with indignation.
“Sorry. Please, may I explain?”

She led him into a drab and clut-
tered parlor. “Won’t you sit down,
Mr. Everard? Please don’t talk too
loudly. The family are all asleep.
They get up early.”

Everard made himself comforta-
ble. Mary perched on the edge of the
sofa, watching him with large eyes.
He wondered if Wulfnoth and Ead-
gar were among her ancestors. Yes
. . . undoubtedly they were, after
all these centuries. Maybe Schtein
was too.

“Are you In the Air Force?” she
asked. “Is that how you met Char-
lie?”

“No. I’m in Intelligence, which is
the reason for this mufti. May I ask
when you last saw him?”

“Oh . . . weeks ago. He’s sta-
tioned in France just now. I hope
this war will soon be over. So silly of
them to keep on when they must
know they’re finished, isn’t it?” She
cocked her head curiously. “But
what is this news you have?”

“I’ll come to it in a moment.” He
began to ramble as much as he dared,
talking of conditions across the Chan-
nel. It was strange to sit conversing
with a ghost. And his conditioning
prevented him from telling the
truth. He wanted to, but when he
tried his tongue froze up on him.

“ — and what it costs to get a bot-
tle of red -ink ordinaire - ”

“Please,” she interrupted impa-
tiently. “Would you mind coming
to the point? I do have an engage-
ment for tonight.”

“Oh, sorry. Very sorry. I’m sure.
You see, it’s this way — ”

A knock at the door saved him.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, and
went out past the blackout drapes to
open it. Everard padded after her.

She staggered back with a small
shriek. ''CharlieV^

Whitcomb pressed her to him,
heedless of the blood still wet on his
Saxon clothes. Everard came into
the hall, and the Englishman stared
with a kind of horror. “You — ”

He snatched for his stunner, but

32

Everard’s was already out. “Don’t
be a fool,” said the American. “I’m
your friend. I want to help you.
What crazy scheme did you have,
anyway.?^”

“I . . . keep her here . . . keep
her from going to — ”

“And do you think they haven’t
got means of spotting you?” Everard
slipped into Temporal, the only pos-
sible language in Mary’s frightened
presence. “When I left Mainwether-
ing, he was getting damn suspicious.
Unless we do this right, every unit
of the Patrol is going to be alerted.
The error will be rectified, probably
by killing her. You’ll go to exile.”

“ I — ” Whitcomb gulped. His face
was a mask of fear. “You . . .
would you let her go ahead and die?”

“No. But this has to be done more
carefully.”

“We’ll escape . ... find some per-
iod away from everything ... go
back to the dinosaur age, if we
must.”

Mary stepped away from him. Her
mouth was pulled open, ready to
scream. “Shut up!” said Everard to
her. “Your life is in danger, and
we’re trying to save you. If you
don’t trust me, trust Charlie.”

Turning back to the man, he went
on in Temporal : “Look, fellow, there
isn’t any place or any time you can
hide. Mary Nelson died tonight.
That’s history. She wasn’t around in
1947. That’s history. I’ve already got
myself in Dutch — the family she
was going to will be out of their
home when the bomb hits it. If you

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

try to run away with her, you’ll be
found. It’s pure luck that a Patrol
unit hasn’t already arrived.”

Whitcomb fought for steadiness.
“Suppose I jump up to 1948 with
her. How do you know she hasn’t
suddenly reappeared in 1948? May-
be that’s history too.”

“Man, you cant. Try it. Go on,
tell her you’re going to hop her four
years into the future.”

Whitcomb groaned. “A giveaway
— and I’m conditioned — ”

“Yeah. You have barely enough
latitude to appear this way before
her, but talking to her, you’ll have
to lie out of it because you can’t help
yourself. Anyway, how would you
explain her? If she stays Mary Nel-
son, she’s a deserter from the WAAF.
If she takes another name, where’s
her birth certificate, her school
record, her ration book, any of those
bits of paper these 2otli-century
governments worship so devoutly?
It’s hopeless, son.”

“Then what can we rfo?”

“Face the Patrol and slug it out.
Wait here a minute.” There was a
cold calm over Everard, no time to
be afraid or to wonder at his own in-
credible quixotism.

Returning to the street, he lo-
cated his hopper and set it to emerge
five years in the future, at high noon
in Piccadilly Circus. He slapped
down the main switch, saw the ma-
chine vanish, and went back inside.
Mary was in Whitcomb’s arms,
shuddering and weeping. The poor,
damned babes in the woods!

TIME PATROL

33

‘*Okay.” Everard led them back
to the parlor and sat down with his
gun ready. “Now we wait.”

It didn’t take long. A hopper ap-
peared, with two men in Patrol gray
aboard. There were weapons in their
hands. Everard cut them down with
a low-powered stun beam. “Help
me tie ’em up, Charlie,” he said.

Mary huddled voiceless in a cor-
ner.

When the men awoke, Everard
stood over them with a bleak-smile.
“What are we charged with, boys.?”
he asked in Temporal.

“I think you know,” said one of
the prisoners calmly. “The main
office had us trace you. Checking up
next week, we found that you had
evacuated a family scheduled to be
bombed. Whitcomb’s record sug-
gested you had then come here, to
help him save this woman who was
supposed to die tonight. Better let
us go or it will be the worse for you.”

“I have not changed history,”
said Everard. “The Daneelians are
still up there, aren’t they?”

“Yes, of course, but —

“How did you know the Enderby
family was supposed to die?”

“Their house was struck, and they
said they had only left it because — ”

“Ah, but the point is they did
leave it. That’s written. Now it’s
you who wants to change the past.”

“But this woman here — ”

“Are you sure there wasn’t a
Mary Nelson who, let us say, settled
in London in 1850 and di^ of old
age about 1900?”

The lean face grinned savagely.
“You’re trying hard, aren’t you? It
won’t work. You can’t fight the en-
tire Patrol.”

“Can’t I, though.? I can leave you
here to be found by the Enderbys.
I’ve set my hopper to emerge in
public at an instant known only to
myself. What’s that going to do to
history?”

“The Patrol will take corrective
measures ... as you did back in
the 5th century.”

“Perhaps! I can make it a lot easier
for them, though, if they’ll hear my
appeal. I want a Daneelian.”
“ITW”

“You heard me,” said Everard.
“If necessary. I’ll mount that hop-
per of yours and ride a million years
up. I’ll point out to them personally
how much simpler it’ll be if they
give us a break.”

That will not be necessary.

Everard spun around with a gasp.
The stunner fell from his hand.

He could not look at the shape
which blazed before his eyes. There
was a dry sobbing in his throat as he
backed away.

Your appeal has been considered^
said the soundless voice. It washnown
and weighed ages before you were
born. But you were still a necessary
lin\ in the chain of time. If you had
failed tonight^ there would be no
mercy.

To us^ it was a matter of record
that one Charles and Mary Whitcomb
lived in Victorians England. It was
also a matter of record that Mary Neh

34

son died with the family she was visit-
ing in i944y and that Charles Whit-
cornb had lived a bachelor and finally
been killed on active duty with the
Patrol, The discrepancy was noted, and
as even the smallest paradox is a
dangerous weakness in the space-time
fabric, it had to be rectified by elimi-
nating one or the other fact from ever
having existed. You have decided
which it will be,

Everard knew, somewhere in his
shaking brain, that the Patrolmen
were suddenly free. He knew that
his hopper had been . . . was being
. . . would be snatched invisibly
away the instant it materialized. He
knew that history now read: WAAF
Mary Nelson missing, presumed
killed by bomb near the home of the
Enderby family, who had all been at
her house when their own was
destroyed; Charles Whitcomb dis-
appearing in 1947, presumed acci-
dentally drowned. He knew that
Mary was given the truth, condi-
tioned against ever revealing it, and
sent back with Charlie to 1850. He
knew they would make their middle-
class way through life, never feeling
quite at home in Victoria’s reign,
that Charlie would often have wist-
ful thoughts of what he had been in
the Patrol . . . and then turn to
his wife and children and decide it

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

had not been such a great sacrifice
after all.

That much he knew, and then the
Daneelian was gone. As the whirling
darkness in his head subsided and he
looked with clearing eyes at the two
Patrolmen, he did not know what
his own destiny was.

“Come on,” said the first man.
“Let’s get out of here before some-
body wakes up. We’ll give you a lift
back to your year — 1954^ isn’t it.^^”

“And then what.^” asked Everard
wonderingly.

The Patrolman shrugged. Under
his casual manner lay the shakenness
which had seized him in the Daneel-
ian presence. “Report to your sector
chief. You’ve shown obviously unfit
for steady work.”

“So ... just cashiered, huh?”

“You needn’t be so dramatic. Did
you think this case was the only one
of its kind in a million years of Patrol
work? There’s a regular procedure
for it.

“You’ll want more training, of
course. Your type of personality goes
best with unattached status — any
age, any place, wherever and when-
ever you may be needed. I think
you’ll like it.”

Everard climbed weakly aboard
the hopper. And when he got off
again, a decade had passed.

iSlpbody Hunts Witches

by P. M. HUBBARD

We are for the sweep of the wide
night skies,

Bursting in a moment from the
darkened room,

The speed of the whistle of the
wind on thighs

Sitting up astraddle on a big,
bare broom.

But nobody hunts us witches
now;

Nobody grudges us the streaming
stars;

Nobody worries with gravita-
tion.

Being briefed in planetary naviga-
tion

And flying saucers and men from
Mars.

We are for the high, unlikely places.

The wind in the wood and the
wailing note.

Of pipe and tympani, the solemn
paces

Of eleven ladies and a dancing
goat.

But nobody hunts us witches
now;

Nobody cavils at a coven’s way:

They have all been exercised in
self-expression.

In the Cinerama and the be-bop
session

And the mass emotion of a later
day.

We are for mai^ging to make things
die,'

The bantam’s blood upon the
barnyard door,

The emptied furrow and the storm-
filled sky.

The dried-up water and the un-
healed sore.

But nobody hunts us witches now.

Nobody minds what spells one
casts:

They have all gone gunning for
new oppressors,

The business bosses and the pink
professors

And the famous physicists with
foolish pasts.

We are for the primal, personal
sins.

The private probings on the single
track.

The furry familiar, the jabbed-in
pins.

The small-scale errands for the
man in black.

But nobody hunts us witches now;

Nobody bothers us with bell and
ban:

Nobody nowadays seems to heed
us.

Us or the church that would super-
sede us,

Both of us being for the single
man.

B5

James Blish is ordinarily one of the most sober and serious of science fiction
writers. But he is also a critic, with quite a literary reputation outside of
our field; and here he employs his critical skill to produce an astute and
hilarious triptych of parodies of three familiar (far too familiar!') types of
science fiction.

With <JMalice to Come

by JAMES BLISH

1: tA Feast of Reason

As IT HAPPENED, THE FIRST PLANET

to which the ZZZ Zynergy Plane-
tary Exploitation Administration —
consisting of two men — was as-
signed was Mars. It was Grig Dick-
ard, of course, who was to do the
actual job; his partner Adolph stayed
behind in the office, paring his finger-
nails with a dagger made of Wurdge-
wood and cooking up new schemes
for making millions.

The difficulty was that — also
as usual — both men had failed to
find out from their new employer
just what the job was.

Since the spaceship . flew itself,
this left Grig with very little to
think about. As a result, he had
occupied himself throu^ most of
the two week trip wijfe a running
argument, by radio, ®th Adolph.
Subject: what was ^ dominant
race on Mars? Grig hapforgotten to
look it up before leaving and Adolph

couldn’t read, so both men were
driven to falling back upon their
intelligence.

“I seem to remember,” Adolph’s
distant voice said, “that the oxygen
tension on the planet is too low to
support any life higher than that of
the insect.”

“Suppose it is?” Grig said im-
patiently. “The point is — ”

“Now, what’s the highest type
of insect?” Adolph continued im-
placably. “The termite, of course.
You see if I’m not right.”

“Nonsense,” Grig retorted.
“Everybody knows that a giant
insect can’t hve. The inverse-cube
law, or something. What you fail
to take into account — ”

“Who said anything about
giant — ”

“ — is the historical factor. Mars
has been the Planet of War since
prehistoric times. Where there’s
smoke, there’s got to be fire. Mars
is probably where that old warrior

WITH MALICE TO COME

37

cult originated — the what’s-itV
name, the Nasties.”

“Hello,” said the radio.

“What d*you mean, hello?” Grig
said. “Haven’t we met before?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, stupid,”
Adolph’s voice said. “It’s our client.
He’s just come into the office. How
are you, Mr. Grummummum?”

There was an indistinct rumble
from the loudspeaker. Grig sud-
denly remembered all the long hours
he had kicked himself for not ques-
tioning Grummummum more closely
before the trip started. “Hey,
Adolph,” he shouted into the mike,
“Ask himV^

More indistinct rumbles, and then
Adolph’s voice. “He says there’ ex-
cellent reason to suppose that Mars
is inhabited exclusively by . . .
did you say jact^sses? Yeah, that’s
what he said,

“Why?”

After a while, Adolph said, “I
made him write this down so I’d
be sure I had it right. It’s on the
basis of something called Bernoulli’s
Principle, which says that if we are
wholly ignorant of the different ways
an event can occur, and therefore
have no reasonable ground for pref-
erence — ”

“Hold everything,” Grig said.
“I think we’re coming in for a land-
ing. Yes, we are. I’ll talk to you in
a minute.”

The landing was uneventful, giv-
ing Grig plenty of time to rig the
radio so that he ciMld still talk to
Adolph while outside the ship. As

he left the airlock, Adolph was
saying, “ — then that event is as
likely to occur one way as another.
That right, Mr. Grummummum?”

The Martian air was too thin to
carry ZZZ’s client’s answer. Nearby,
Grig saw something moving, but
he motioned it away. It was im-
portant to get to the bottom of
this before even risking any dealings
with the natives.

“So where does that leave us?” he
demanded.

“Why, it means that the proba-
bilities of the Martians being ter-
mites, Nasties or jackasses is ex-
actly equal. What else?”

“But,” Grig spluttered, “that’s
an impossible conclusion. It leaves
us with three exclusive alternatives,
each one of which is as likely as the
other two!”

“Well, don’t blame me. That’s
what he says.”

The Martian, which had waited
politely for the argument to end,
apparently took Grig’s despairing
shrug as a signal. Still chewing
placidly on its cud of wood, it
rose politely on its rear legs, ex-
posing the swastika emblazoned on
its chest.

“Heehaw, O Earthman,” it said.

II: The Million-year Minge

The rocket came down with a ter-
rible bang iuid then stood silent
on the red Martian desert. It shone
in the Martian sunlight, silvered
like the fish Mom used to bring

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

38

home on Sundays, after you’d
watched the summer nodding like a
bright jack'in-the-pulpit toward the
purple evening.

As soon as he was sure every-
thing was really all right, Father
turned ofif all the sparkplugs. All
but one.

“In case we need to go back up
again,” he said gravely. “We may
need to go back up again, after all.”

“You know very well that you
won’t want to go back up again,”
Mom said, coming out of the kitch-
enette. Her hair shone like bright
cornsilk in the streak of Martian
sunlight that was coming through
the open porthole. I wanted to
run to her, but I didn’t because
James was crying underneath the
control board and I had to show that
I was older and braver than he was.

“Well, we might want to go up
again,” Father said. He and mother
looked at each other, like children
look when they are looking at each
other. The sparkplug he had left
going ticked in the room hke the
clock that ticked you to sleep when
you were httle and all the stars
were little glowing points on your
nursery wallpaper that Father had
put there, painstakingly licking the
back of each one and pasting it on.

“No, we mightn’t,” Mom said.

“When do we go out, anyhow.?”
I said.

“We’re already out,” Father said,
going to the porthole and looking
out of it, his eyes like those of a man
looking into a tropical fish tank and

seeing there the little fish, shining
like spaceships, circling around the
toy diver that made real bubbles
in the glowing water. “We got out
just in time.”

He took a deep breath of the
still, wintery air.

“What do you see.?” Mom said.

“I see great shining cities, run by
just governments of simple people,
and kind people, people who are
kind to the ghostly Martians who
drift through them.”

I ran to the porthole and looked
out. I didn’t see any cities. I saw
millions and miUions of beer cans
— millions of them, all rusty with
the rusty red of the Martian desert.

“I don’t see any cities,” I said.
“All I see are some old beer cans.
All the way to the horizon.”

“Those are what we’ll build the
shining cities with,” Father breathed.
“We’ll pile them up, one on top
of the other. We’ll bring old Mars
back to life.”

“Gee,” I said. “But, Dad —
what about the ghostly Martians?”

He turned and pointed to me and
James. “Yo^/,” he said, “will be the
Martians.”

I was surprised.

Ill: tA Matter of Energy

As soon as I saw Joe Jones, I knew
that he was the man I needed to
send back to the Augustan Age.
I knew it because I could not read
his expression.^^

To the wdi^ man who can’t

WITH MALICE TO COME

even read his own expression this
wouldn’t be a significant datum,
but with me it is different. As a
consulting industrial psionic psicho-
logist I am accustomed to reading
the faces of anything, even checks.
I always understand everybody in-
stantly.

But I didn’t understand Joe Jones.
He was Everyman’s nobody. He had
no emotions. If he had had them,
I could have read them — if not by
the patterns formed by the hairs
in his moustache, then by the
psionic techniques which I have
developed by correspondence with
psichotic people all over the country.
So it had to be true that Joe had no
emotions.

He was the perfect man to go back
in time and take over the Augustan
Age for me.

“Joe,” I asseverated, “I’ve given
you the invincible weapon to take
over the Romans: twisted semantics.
It can’t fail, but if it does, try
twisted dianetics. Do you under-
stand wJbat yoii’re to do?”

“Yes, Cliff,” he lipped thinly.

“But there’s one danger I haven’t
warned you of until now,” I ad-
monished sternly. “You must not
use Arabic numerals while you’re
in Rome. The Romans didn’t know
them. If you use them, you will be
driven to hide like a witch. Un-
derstand?”

“Yes, Cliff,” he acknowledged
flatly. ^

“Now, I haven^^iven you any
training in how to , calculate in

39

Roman numerals,” I outpointed.
“I could have given it to you by
my own revolutionary educational
system, or implanted it on your
cerebral cortex with my psionic
powers, but there’s one great draw-
back: calculating with Roman nu-
merals just takes too long. You
wouldn’t have time to take over
the Empire if you had to do all
your figuring that way. Is that
clear?”

“That’s clear. Cliff,” he admitted
immediately.

“So,” I perorated triumphantly,
“I’ve provided you with the answer,
inside this little black box. This is
a computer, called the THROBAC.
That’s short for 77/rifty ROman-
numeral Backwards-looking Calcu-
lator. It will add, subtract, multiply
or divide in Roman numerals, and
give you the answer in Roman
numerals. Coupling and that crowd
at Bell think that they invented it,
but I can see through them hke a
glass of antigravity elixir. Use this
machine — secretly, of course
— whenever you need to do any
figuring. Do you dig me?”

“I dig you, Cliff,” he penulti-
mated.

“Then go,” I concluded com-
mandingly. He stepped into the
time machine, wh^ch I had named
ELSIE, and vanished at once. With
the help of my psionic correspond-
ents I could have sent him back
without a machine, but this whole
operation had to be kept secret
from the politicians, industrialists.

40

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

and other pressure groups who
might bring twisted semantics to
bear on me.

He was back in no time, of
course. He had instructions to
return to this moment, no matter
how long he stayed in ancient
Rome. But there was something
wrong.

I could read his expression!

“What have yoii done?” I hissed
grindingly.

“I did just like you said. Cliff,”
he replied defensively. “Soon as I
had to do some figuring, I holed up
in my room and plugged THROB AG
into the nearest socket. But — ”

“Get to the point!” I ordered
commandingly.

“But Cliff,” he wailed protest-
ingly, “you overlooked something.
THROBAC operates only on AG
current! And the first AC generator
wasn’t built until after the 18^0’s

A I*’

A.D. !

I was crushed. That small over-
sight — no, it was an undersight,
typical of me, underestimating the
extent of my own massive knowl-
edge — must have blown every
fuse and circuit- breaker in Augustan
Rome. I rushed to the nearest
history book.

What had I undone?

If*s dangerous to probe too far into the symbolism of a good story: as MacLeish
said of a poem, a story should not mean, but be. Fll venture, however, to
suggest something of the meaning of this curious and terrible little episode
conceived by Mr. Beaumont: If you devote your life to the philosophy of Some-
thing-For-No thing (as so relentlessly propagandised on the lowest levels of
daytime TV), retribution too may come For Nothing: the Blind Gods are
the least safe from whom to seek favors. . . .

Free T)irt

by CHARLES BEAUMONT

No FOWL HAD EVER LOOKED SO
posthumous. Its bones lay stacked
to one side of the plate like kindling:
white, dry and naked in the soft
light of the restaurant.. Bones only,
with every shard and filament of
meat stripped methodically off.
Otherwise, the plate was a vast
glistening plain.

The other, smaller dishes and
bowls were equally virginal. They
shone fiercely against one another.
And all a pale cream color fixed
upon the snowy white of a table-
cloth unstained by gravies and* un-
spotted by coffee and free from the
stigmata of breadcrumbs, cigarette
ash and fingernail lint.

Only the dead fowl’s bones and
the stippled traceries of hardened
red gelatine clinging timidly to the
bottom of a dessert cup gave evi-
dence that these ruins had once been
a magnificent six-course dinner.

Mr. Aorta, not a small man, per-
mitted a mild belch, folded the
newspaper he had fou/id^n the chair,
inspected his vest for S)od leavings
and then made his way briskly to the
cashier.

The old woman glanced at his
check.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“All righty,” Mr. Aorta said and
removed from his hip pocket a lar^e
black wallet. He opened it equally,
whistling “The Seven Joys of Mary”
through the space provided by his
two front teeth.

The melody stopped, abruptly.
Mr. Aorta looked concerned. He
peered into his wallet, then began
removing things; presently its en-
tire contents was spread out.

He frowned. I

“What seems to be the difficulty, ^
sir?”

“Oh, no difficulty,” the fat man

41

42

said, “exactly.” Though the wallet
was manifestly empty, he flapped
its sides apart, held it upside down
and continued to shake it, suggest-
ing the picture of a hydrophobic
bat suddenly seized in mid-air.

Mr. Aorta smiled a weak har-
rassed smile and proceeded to empty
all of his fourteen separate pockets.
In time the counter was piled high
with miscellany.

“Well!” he said impatiently.
“What nonsense! What bother! Do
you know what’s happened? My
wife’s gone off and forgotten to leave
me any change! Heigh-ho, well, ah

— my name is James Brockelhurst:
I’m with the Pliofilm Corporation:
I generally don’t eat out, and —
here, no, I insist. This is embarrass-
ing for you as well as for myself. I
insist upon leaving my card. If you
will retain it, I shall return tomor-
row evening at this time and reim-
burse you.”

Mr. Aorta shoved the pasteboard
into the cashier’s hands, shook his
head, shoveled the residue back into
his pockets and, plucking a tooth-
pick from a box, left the restaurant.

He was quite pleased with himself

— an invariable reaction to the ac-
quisition of something for nothing in
return. It had all gone smoothly,
and what a delightful meal!

He strolled in the direction of the
streetcar stop, casting occasional
licentious glances at undressed man-
nequins in department store win-
dows.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

The prolonged fumbling for his
car token worked as efficiently as
ever. (Get in the middle of the
crowd, look bewildered, inconspicu-
ous, search your pockets earnestly,
the while edging from the vision of
the conductor — then, take a far
seat and read a newspaper.) In four
years’ traveling time, Mr. Aorta
computed he had saved a total of
$ 211 . 20 .

The electric’s ancient list did not
jar his warm feeling of serenity. He
studied the amusements briefly,
then went to work on the current
puzzle, whose prize ran into the
thousands. Thousands of dollars, ac-
tually for nothing. Something for
nothing. Mr. Aorta loved puzzles.

But the fine print made reading
impossible.

Mr. Aorta glanced at the elderly
woman standing near his seat; then,
because the woman’s eyes were full
of tired pleading and insinuation, he
refocused out the wire cross-hatch
windows.

What he saw caused his heart to
throb. The section of town was one
he passed every day, so it was a
wonder he’d not noticed it before —
though generally there was little
provocation to sight-see on what
was irreverently, called “Death Row’
— a dreary round of mortuaries, col-
umbariums, crematories and the
like, all crowded into a five-block
area.

He yanked the stop-signal, hur-
ried to the rear of the streetcar and
depressed the exit plate. In a few

FREE DIRT

43

moments he had walked to what
he’d seen.

It was a sign, artlessly lettered
though spelled correctly enough. It
was not new, for the white paint had
swollen and cracked and the rusted
nails had dripped trails of dirty
orange over the face of it.

The sign read :

FREE DIRT
APPLY WITHIN
LILYVALE
CEMETERY

and was posted upon the moldering
green of a woodboard wall.

Now Mr. Aorta felt a familiar
sensation come over him. It hap-
pened whenever he encountered the
word FREE — a magic word that
did strange and wonderful things to
his metabolism.

Free, What is the meaning, the
essence of free? Why, something for
nothing. And, as has been pointed
out, to get something for nothing
was Mr. Aorta’s chiefest pleasure in
this mortal life.

The fact that it was dirt which
was being offered free did not op-
press him. He seldom gave more
than fleeting thought to these things;
for, he reasoned, nothing is without
its use.

The other, subtler circumstances
surrounding the sign scarcely oc-
curred to him: why the dirt was
being offered, where free dirt in a
cemetery would logically come from;

et cetera. In this connection he con-
sidered only the probable richness
of the soil.

Mr. Aorta’s solitary hesitation en-
circled such problems as: Was this
offer an honest one, without strings
whereby he would have to buy
something? Was there a limit on
how much he could take home? If
not, what would be the best method
of transporting it?

Petty problems: all solvable.

Mr. Aorta did something inwardly
that resembled a smile, looked about
and finally located the entrance to
the Lilyvale Cemetery.

These desolate grounds, which had
accommodated in turn a twine fac-
tory, an upholstering firm and an
outlet for ladies’ shoes, now lay
swathed in a miasmic vapor — ac-
creditable, in the absence of nearby
bogs, to a profusion of windward
smokestacks. The blistered hum-
mocks, peaked with crosses, slabs
and stones, loomed gray and sad in
the gloaming: withal, a place purely
delightful to describe, and a pity it
cannot be — for how it looked there
that evening had little to do with
the fat man and what was eventu-
ally to become of him.

Important only that it was a place
fiill of dead people on their backs
under ground, moldering and mold-
ered.

Mr. Aorta hurried because he.
despised to waste, along with every-
thing else, time. It was not long be-
fore he had encountered the proper

44

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

party and had this conversation;

“I understand you’re offering free
dirt.”

“Yes.”

“How much may one have?”

“Much as you want.”

“On what days?”

“Any days — and there’ll always
be some fresh.”

Mr. Aorta sighed in the manner
of one who has just acquired a life-
time inheritance or a measured
checking account. He then made an
appointment for the following Sat-
urday and went home to ruminate
agreeable ruminations.

At a quarter past 9 that night he
hit upon an excellent use to which
the dirt might be put.

His back yard, an ochre waste, lay
chunked and dry, a barren stretch
repulsive to all but the grossest
weeds. A tree had once flourished
there, in better days, a haven for
suburbanite birds; but then the birds
disappeared for no good reason ex-
cept that this is when Mr. Aorta
moved into the house, and the tree
became an ugly naked thing.

No children played in this yard.

Mr. Aorta was intrigued. Who
could say, perhaps something might
be made to grow! He had long ago
written an enterprising firm for free
samples of seeds, and received
enough to feed an army. But the
^first experiments had shriveled into
hard useless pips and, seized by lassi-
tude, Mr. Aorta had shelved the
project. Now . . •

A neighbor named Joseph William
Santucci permitted himself to be
intimidated. He lent his old Reo
truck, and after a few hours the first
load of dirt had arrived and been
shoveled into a tidy mound. It
looked beautiful to Mr. Aorta, whose
passion overcompensated for his
weariness with the task. The second
load followed, and the third, and the
fourth, and it was dark as a coalbin
out when the very last was dumped.

Mr. Aorta returned the truck and
fell into an exhausted, though not
unpleasant sleep.

The next day was heralded by the
distant clangor of church bells and
the chtnl^chin\o{ Mr. Aorta’s spade,
leveling the displaced graveyard
soil, distributing it and grinding it
in with the crusty earth. It had a
continental look, this new dirt:
swarthy, it seemed, black and satur-
nine: not at all dry, though the sun
was already quite hot.

Soon the greater portion of the
yard was covered, and Mr. Aorta
returned to his sitting room.

He turned on the radio in time to
identify a popular song, marked his
discovery on a postcard and mailed
this away, confident that he would
receiver either a toaster or a set of
nylon hose for his trouble.

Then he wrapped four bundles
containing, respectively: a can of
vitamin capsules, half of them gone;
a half- tin of coffee; a half-full bottle
of spot remover; and a box of soap
flakes with most of the soap flakes
missing. These he mailed, each with

F&££ DIRT

a note curtly expressing his total
dissatisfaction, to the companies
that had offered them to him on a
money-back guarantee.

Now it was dinner time, and Mr.
Aorta beamed in anticipation. He
sat down to a meal of sundry deh-
cacies such as anchovies, sardines,
mushrooms, caviar, olives and pearl
onions. It was not, however, that he
enjoyed this type of food for any
esthetic reasons: only that it had all
come in packages small enough to be
slipped into one’s pocket without
attracting the attention of busy
grocers.

Mr. Aorta cleaned his plates so
thoroughly no cat would care to
lick them; the empty tins also looked
new and bright: even their hds
gleamed iridescently.

Mr. Aorta glanced at his check
book balance, grinned indecently,
and went to look out the back win-
dow. (He was not married, so he felt
no urge to lie down after dinner.)

The moon was cold upon the yard.
Its rays passed over the high fence
Mr. Aorta had constructed from
free rocks, and splashed moodily
onto the now black earth.

Mr. Aorta thought a bit, put
away his check book and got out the
boxes containing the garden seeds.

They were good as new.

Joseph William Santucci’s truck
was in use every Saturday thereafter
for five weeks. This good man
watched curiously as his neighbor
returned each time with more dirt

.45

and yet more, and he made several
remarks to his wife about the odd-
ness of it all, but she could not bear
even to talk about Mr. Aorta.

“He’s robbed us blind I” she said.
“Look! He wears your old clothes,
he uses my sugar and spices and
borrows everything else he can think
of! Borrows, did I say? I mean steals.
For years! I have not seen the man
pay for a thing yet! Where does he
work he makes so little money?

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Santucci
knew that Mr. Aorta’s daily labors
involved sitting on the sidewalk
downtown, with dark glasses on and
a battered tin cup in front of him.
They’d both passed him several
times, though, and given him pen-
nies, both unable to penetrate the
clever disguise. It was all kept, the
disguise, in a free locker at the rail-
road terminal.

“Here he comes again, that loony !”
Mrs. Santucci wailed.

Soon it was time to plant the
seeds, and Mr. Aorta went about this
with ponderous precision, after hav-
ing consulted numerous books at the
hbrary. Neat rows of summer squash
were sown in the richly dark soil;
and peas, corn, beans, onions, beets,
rhubarb, asparagus, water cress and
much more, actually. When the
rows were filled and Mr. Aorta was
stuck with extra packs, he smiled,
and dispersed strawberry seeds and^
watermelon seeds and seeds without
clear description. Shortly the paper
packages were all empty.

46

A few days passed and it was get-
ting time to go to the cemetery
again for a fresh load, when Mr.
Aorta noticed an odd thing.

The dark ground had begun to
yield to tiny eruptions. Closer in-
spection revealed that things had
begun to grow. In the soil.

Now Mr. Aorta knew very little
about gardening, when you got
right down to it. He thought it
strange, of course, but he was not
alarmed. He saw things growing,
that was the important point. Things
that would become foc^.

Praising his. Weltanschauung^ he
hurried to Lilyvale and there re-
ceived a singular disappointment:
Not many people had died lately.
There was scant dirt to be had:
hardly one truckful.

Ah well, he thought, things are
bound to pick up over the holidays;
and he took home what there was.

Its addition marked the improve-
ment of the garden’s growth. Shoots
and buds came higher, and the ex-
‘panse was far less bleak.

He could not contain himself
until the next Saturday, for obvi-
ously this dirt was acting as some
sort of fertilizer on his plants — the
free food called out for more.

But the next Saturday came a
cropper. Not even a shovel’s load.
And the garden was beginning to
dessicate. • • •

Mr. Aorta’s startling decision came
as a result of trying all kinds of new
dirt and fertilizers of every imagin-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

able description. Nothing worked.
His garden, which had promised a
fiill bounty of edibles, had sunk to
new lows: it was almost back to its
original state. And this Mr. Aorta
could not abide, for he had put in
considerable labor on the project
and this labor must not be wasted.
It had deeply affected his other
enterprises.

So, with the caution born of des-
peration, he entered the gray quiet
place with the tombstones one night,
located freshly dug but unoccupied
graves and added to their six-foot
depth yet another foot. It was not
noticeable to anyone who was not
looking for such a discrepancy.

No need to mention the many
trips involved: it is enough to say
that in time Mr. Santucci’s truck,
parked a block away, was a quarter
filled.

The following morning saw a re-
birth in the garden.

And so it went. When dirt was to
be had, Mr. Aorta was obhged; when
it was not, well, it wasn’t missed.
And the garden kept growing and
growing, until —

As if overnight, everything opened
up! Where so short a time past had
been a parched little prairie was now
a multifloral, multivegetable para-
dise. Corn bulged yellow from its
spiny green husks; peas were brilliant
green in their half-spht pods, and
all the other wonderful foodstuffs
glowed full rich with life and show-
case vigor. Rows and rows of them.

FREE DIRT

47

Mr. Aorta was almost felled by
enthusiasm.

A liver for the moment and an
idiot in the art of canning, he knew
what he had to do.

It took a while to systematically
gather up the morsels; but with pa-
tience, he at last had the garden
stripped clean of all but weeds and
leaves and other unedibles.

He cleaned. He peeled. He stringed.
He cooked. He boiled. He took all
the good free food and piled it geo-
metrically on tables and chairs and
continued with this until it was all
ready to be eaten.

Then he began. Starting with the
asparagus — he had decided to do it
in alphabetical order — he ate and
ate clear through beets and celery
and parsley and rhubarb, paused
there for a drink of water, and went
on eating, being careful not to waste
a jot, until he came to water cress.
By this time his stomach was twist-
ing painfully, but it was a sweet
pain, so he took a deep breath and,
by chewing slowly, did away with
the final vestigal bit of food.

The plates sparkled white, Hke a
series of bloated snowflakes. It was
all gone.

Mr. Aorta felt an almost sexual
satisfaction, by which is meant he
had had enough for now. He couldn’t
even belch.

Happy thoughts assailed his mind,
as follows: His two greatest passions
had been fulfilled; life’s meaning
acted out symbolically like a con-
densed Everyman, These two things

only are what this man thought of.

He chanced to look out the win-
dow.

What he saw was a speck of bright
in the middle of blackness. Small,
somewhere at the end of the garden
— faint yet distinct.

With the effort of a brontosaurus
emerging from a tar-pit Mr. Aorta
rose from his chair, walked to the
door and went out into his emascu-
lated garden. He lumbeied past
dangling grotesqueries formed by
shucks and husks and vines.

The speck seemed to have disap-
peared, and he looked carefully in
all directions, slitting his eyes, trying
to get accustomed to the moonlight.

Then he saw it. A white fronded
thing, a plant, perhaps only a flower;
but there, certainly, and all that was
left.

Mr. Aorta was surprised to see
that it was located at the bottom of a
shallow dechvity very near the dead
tree. He couldn’t remember how a
hole could have got dug in his gar-
den, but there were always neighbor-
hood kids and their pranks. A lucky
thing he’d grabbed the food when
hedidi

Mr. Aorta leaned over the edge
of the small pit and reached down
his hand toward the shining plant.
It resisted his touch, somehow. He
leaned farther over and yet a little
farther, and stiU he couldn’t lay
fingers on the thing.

Mir. Aorta was not an agile man.
However, with the intensity of a
painter trying to cover one l^t tiny

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

48

spot awkwardly placed, he leaned
just a mite farther and plosh! he’d
toppled over the edge and landed
with a peculiarly subaqueous thud.
A ridiculous damned bother — now
he’d have to make a fool of himself
clambering out again. But, the plant
. . . He searched the floor of the
pit, and searched it, and no plant
could be found. Then he looked up
and was appalled by two things:
Number one, the pit had been
deeper than he’d thought; Number
two, the plant was waving in the
wind above him, on the rim he had
so recently occupied.

The pains in Mr. Aorta’s stomach
got progressively worse. Movement
increased the pains. He began to feel
an overwhelming pressure in his ribs.

• It was at the moment of his dis-
covery that the top of the hole was
up beyond his reach that he saw the
white plant in full moon glow. It
looked rather hke a hand, a big hu-
man hand, waxy and stiff and at-
tached to the earth. The wind hit it
and it moved slightly, causing a rain
of dirt pellets to fall upon Mr.
Aorta’s face.

He thought a moment, judged
the whole situation, and began to
climb. But the pains were too much
and he fell, writhing a bit.

The wind came again and more
dirt was scattered down into the
hole: soon the strange plant was
being pushed to and fro against the
soil, and the dirt fell more and more
heavily. More and more. More heav-
ily and more heavily.

Mr. Aorta, who had never up to
tliis point found occasion to scream,
screamed. It was quite successful,
despite the fact that no one heard it.

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph William
Santucci found Mr. Aorta. He was
lying on the floor in front of several
tables. On the tables were many
plates. The plates on the tables
were clean and shining.

His stomach was distended past
burst belt buckle, popped buttons
and forced zipper. It was not unlike
the image of a great white whale ris-
ing from placid forlorn waters.

“Ate hisself to death,” Mrs. San-
tucci said in the manner of the con-
cluding line of a complex joke.

Mr. Santucci reached down and
plucked a tiny ball of soil from the
fat man’s dead lips. He studied it,
And an idea came to him. . . .

He tried to get rid of the idea, but
when the doctors found Mr. Aorta’s
stomach to contain many pounds of
dirt — and nothing else — Mr. San-
tucci slept badly, for almost a week.

They carried Mr. Aorta’s body
through the weedy but otherwise
empty and desolate back yard, past
the mournful dead tree and the rock
fence.

And then they laid him to rest in
a place with a moldering green
wood board wall: The wall had a
httle sign nailed to it,' artlessly let-
tered though spelled correctly
enough.

And the wind blew absolutely
Free.

Here is a pleasingly mad little caprice, in which Mr, Dickson (with an
assist from Mr, Milne) illuminates for us the Galactic Significance of the
Snail,

James

by GORDON R. DICKSON

'James gave the huffle of a snail in
danger, ...”

(from “Four Friends,” a poem by A. A. Milne)

James huffled.

He paused, his horns searching
the air. Something was coming to-
ward him along the brick he himself
was traversing. For a moment he
tensed, then his trained perception
recognised that the one approach-
ing was another snail. James glowed
with pleasure and hurried to meet
him.

“I’m James,” he said, joyfully
touching horns. “And you.^^”
“Egbert,” replied the other.
“Honored to make your acquaint-
ance, James.”

“Honored to make yours,” replied
James; and then, avidly, as all snails
do, he asked, “What’s new.^”

“The word,” said the other. “The
word is being passed.”

“No!” said James,

“Absolutely,” confirmed Egbert,
“It’s Homo Sapiens, of course; you
might have expected it.” He sighed.

“H. Sapiens?” asked James. “Why,
I wouldn’t have thought it of them.
They seemed like such large harm-
less creatures, for all their rushing
around. I’ve just been observing
one — ”

“They may look harmless,” inter-
rupted Egbert, sternly, “but the
mischief’s in them. And we can’t
tolerate it, of course. After coming
halfway across the Galaxy to try and
get away from Them, you know.”

“True,” agreed James. H^added,
a trifle wistfully, “Sometimes I think
we should have crushed Them the
last time they overran the planet
we were on. If not the previous time.
Or the time before that.”

“But what a labor it would have
been,” protested Egbert. “Of course
all they had were primitive material
weapons: space warps, disintegrators
and the like. But there were so
many of Them — thousands of plan-
etary systems all populated up to
the plimsoll mark. What a weary
task to zzitz hard enough to ex-
terminate them all. And how easy,

49

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

= C5O

Comparatively, to zzitz just enough
to protect ourselves.”

‘^Ah, yes,” sighed James. “Of
course we are by nature sensible and
wary of overexertion. Well, I sup-
pose we’re better off here after all,
even with Homo Sapiens dashing
back and forth as if his shell was on
fire. Who would ever have thought
a life form could become so active?
And what is it, by the way, that
they’ve finally done?”

“Well,” said Egbert darkly, “brace
yourself. It’s almost unbelievable,
but since it comes through the
grapevine, it must be true. The
official word just filtered up from
the valley of the Euphrates, or the
Nile, or someplace around there.
One of them — ” he spaced the
words slowly and impressively “ —
one — of — them has actually just
invented a wheel!”

“No!” cried James, stunned.

“That’s the word,” insisted Egbert.
“I don’t blame you for being surprised.
I had trouble believing it myself
when it was told to me just the
month before last.”

“That explains it!” cried James.
“I thought I’d been seeing things
with wheels around; but naturally
I couldn’t believe my senses on the
basis of purely empirical evidence.
Ah old friend of mine was crushed
by one the other day. His name
was Charlie. You didn’t know him,
by any chance?”

“No,” replied Egbert. “I never
knew a Charhe.” They brooded in
silence for a second.

“He was a Good Snail,” said
James, at last, bestowing the words
of highest tribute upon his deceased
friend. His mind swung back to the
implications of the news he had just
heard. “But this — ” he stammered,
“ — this is terrible!”

“Of course it is,” brooded Egbert,
darkly. “You know what’s bound to
happen now, don’t you? They’ll be
settling down, making pottery. First
thing you know they’ll build
pyramids, discover gunpowder. Why,
before we can turn around they’ll
be splitting the atom, and you know
what happens then!”

“Spaceflight . . breathed James,
horrified.

“Exactly!” replied Egbert grimly.
“And the minute they get a ship
outside the atmosphere, it’ll register
on Their separation-index. And you
know what TheyW do when They
find out.”

“Poor H. Sapiens!” quavered
James.

“Yes,” said Egbert. “And poor us.
The minute a ship gets outside the
Earth’s atmosphere, it won’t be
more than three days, local time,
before They notice it and have a
fleet here englobing the planet.
Which means we have only the
limited time remaining between now
and the launching of the first space
rocket to take defensive measures.
And that time gets shorter by the
century. Why, for all we know —
at the mad pace these humans move
^ — one of them may be experiment-
ing with a potter’s wheel even now.”

JAMES

“Indeed,” said James, anxiously,
“I could almost swear I’ve notic^
signs of pottery culture among our
local H. Sapiens. Of course — ” he
added hastily “ — I have no con-
firmation of the fact in the way of
comparative reports from other
Snails.”

“True. I too • . .” Egbert lowered
his voice. “Let us speak off the
record, James. Unscientific as it
must be for only two observers to
compare notes — tell me: You
haven’t seen any evidence of pyramid
building here in North America?”

“N-no . . .” answered James cau-
tiously. “I have seen some rather odd
structures — but no true pyramid.”

“Thank heaven for that,” said
Egbert, with a sigh of relief. “Nor
have I. Not that our two unofl&cial
observations mean anything, but
they represent a straw in the wind,
a hope, James, that what you and
I have seen mirrors the Big Picture,
and that H. Sapiens is still, essentially,
a happy herdsman.”

“StiU,” said James doubtfully, “if
I were to venture a guess on my
own — ”

“James!” reproved Egbert,
shocked, “This in unsnailike. Put
such thoughts from your mind. No,
no, rest assured that we have some
few thousands of years still in which
to contact H. Sapiens if the race is
to be taught how to zzitz and so
protect itself and its planet from
Them. Reassure yourself that it is
merely a matter of contacting the
right individual, one who will be-

51

lieve us and who in turn will be
believed by his fellows.”

For a moment silence hung heavy
between the two snails.

“Some people,” said James finally,
in an apologetic voice, “might call
us slow.”

“Oh, no!” cried Egbert, profoundly
shocked. “Surely not!”

“And perhaps,” continued James,
his voice strengthening, “who knows
but what we actually may be a bit
slow? I want to be fiiir about this.
I will be fair about this! Think,
Egbert: it has been at least twenty
planets, one after the other, which
we have seen blown from beneath us,
and their native life destroyed by
Them in spite of all our good in-
tentions about teaching that native
hfe to protect itself by zzitzing.”
“But—”

“But me no buts, Egbert! Twenty
chances we have had to protect
the weak and defenseless. Twenty
times — in a row — we have been
just a little bit late in giving aid.
And I say to you, Egbert, here and
now, that if by following our tra-
ditional cautious methods we again
slip up and see the human race
destroyed, then, by all that’s holy,
we are a trifle slow!”

“James,” breathed Egbert, shrink-
ing back in awe. “Such energy!
Such fire! You are a Snail Trans-
formed!”

And, indeed, James was. Quiver-
ing with righteous indignation, he
had reared up a full three-quarters
of an inch above the surface of the

brick and both sets of his horns
stuck out rigidly, as if challenging
the universe.

“Egbert,” he said fiercely, “the
tradition of eons is about to be
broken. You have spoken of several
thousand years in which to contact
H. Sapiens. Know, Egbert, that the
far end of this brick touches the
sill of a window, that that sill over-
hangs a desk, and that at that desk
sits a man high in the councils of
the Five Indian Nations, or the
United Nations, or some such impor-
tant organization. This man I have
been observing and I have dis-
covered in him the capability to
understand and believe the threat
that They will pose to his race, if
that self-same race continues this
mad plunge of progress which has
just recently brought forth the in-
vention of the wheel.”

“James!” gasped Egbert. “You
mean . . .? You wouldn’t . .
Not without first submitting a re-
port for the consideration of other
snails, the formation of an investi-
gative forum, the collection of an
adequate number of blanketing re-
ports, a general referendum — ”

“Cease, Egbert!” interrupted
James sternly. “I would, and I will.
What you and other snails have
always refused to recognise is the
impermanence of the individual H.
Sapiens. They are here today, and —
if I 'may coin a phrase — gone to-
morrow.” The tone of his voice
changed. A note almost of pleading
crept into it. “Can’t you under-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

stand, Egbert, that this is a crisis!
We can’t afford to waste a thousand
years here and a thousand years there
just to make the matter oflScial.”

“But scientific method — ” began
Egbert.

“Scientific method, bosh!” re-
torted James, crudely. Egbert gasped.
“What good was scientific method
to the life forms of the last twenty
planets we’ve inhabited.?”

Egbert was struck dumb. It was
a good twenty minutes before he
managed to answer.

“Why—” he said at last. “I
never thought of that. That’s true,
it didn’t help them much, did it?”
He stared at James with wonder and
admiration dawning in the little
eye at the tip of each of his two
major horns. “But James — ” he
said. “To flout tradition in this
feshion — to throw off at one fell
swoop the age-welded bonds of
ancient custom and established
means. Why, James — ” he went
on, falling, as all Snails do when
deeply moved, into iambic pentame-
ter “ — this step will sound through-
out the halls of time; and through
the echoing vault of universe; be
duplicated to infinity. So that all
future ages, hearing it, and looking
back, will wonder how you could.
And tell me James, how is it that
you can?”

James bowed his horns in graceful
acknowledgment of the question.

“I am,” he replied simply, “what
you might possibly characterize as
a humanitarian.”

JAMES

“Ah,” said Egbert softly, “so
that’s it.”

“Yes,” answered James. “And
now — my duty calls. Farewell,
Egbert.”

“Farewell!” choked Egbert, almost
too overcome to speak. They broke
contact; and James began to turn
around. “Farewell, oh brave and
gallant spirit!”

Resolutely, James completed his
turn and began his march. Inside
the window, at the desk, a heavy
balding man with tired eyes straight-
ened his glasses and began to read
a report stamped TOP SECRET
and headed particulars of forth-
coming FLIGHT OF UN SPACE ROCKET
x-i. He read steadily into the report
as the sun crept across the sky.

After a while he stopped tempo-
rarily to rub his eyes. As he did,

53

he caught sight of a snail which had
just crawled across the sill from
outside the window. It stood balanced
on the edge. It was James, of course,
and for a long second they looked
at each other. Then the man turned
back to the report.

James paused to catch his breath.
The trip had been all of eleven inches
and he had come at top speed.

Finally he collected himself and
turned toward the man. The H.
Sapiens’ head was bent over a sheaf
of paper; but whatever engrossed
him there would be small potatoes
to what James was about to hit him
with. James took a deep breath.

“Huffle,” he said. “Huffle. Huf-
Jlel HufflCy hufflcy huffle, huffle . . •”

** James gave the huffle of a snail in
danger — And nobody heard him at
alir A. A. Milne

Advance Notice

It’s a little early to tell you many details about the Thirteenth
World Science Fiction Convention, to be held in Cleveland at the
Manger Hotel from September ^ through September 5. But three
points should be enough to make you send off your check immedi-
ately: i) the guest of honor will be Isaac Asimov, who is (I solemnly
assure you) even more entertaining in person than on the printed
page; l) this convention will, uniquely, take over almost an entire
hotel for its own use, with no house detectives and night managers
to worry about; 3) conventions are fun! So, to help the Clevelanders
through the difficult early months of arrangements, please send
your $i registration at once to 13th World S. F. Convention, Box
508, Edgewater Branch, Cleveland 7, Ohio. See you in September!

A. B.

POOTNOTE ON A COLLABORATION: Mort ofttTi than readers suspect^ a story
carrying a solo hy-line has been so extensively replotted and even rewritten
by the editor that it is actually a collaboration, (Jn F&SF any such revisions
are always undertaken only with the approval of the author; in one of our
leading rivals ^ I am toldy the printed form of a story is often a complete sur-
prise to its nominal creator?) I know^ for instance^ that many of my own
stories anthologized from Astounding should^ if I were a wholly scrupulous
many bear the credit-line **by Anthony Boucher and John W, Campbell ,
Miriam Allen deFord is, I have discovered^ a singularly scrupulous
woman; after this story passed back and forth between us a number of times ^
she decided that it should carry a collaborative by-line, I hope you like the
result.

JMary Celestial

by MIRIAM ALLEN DEFORD AND
ANTHONY BOUCHER

XlLMUCH WAS DISCOVERED ONCE.

It was discovered in 3942 by Patrick
Ostronsky-Vierra, a Two Star Scout
of the Galactic Presidium.

It is easy to find — it is in fact
Planet IV of Altair. If it were not a
little off the beaten track it would
have been discovered long before.
It is almost precisely the size of our
Earth, has similar atmosphere, rota-
tion, gravity, and climatic condi-
tions. It is two-thirds land surface,
and in every way is admirably
adapted to human habitation. It
has been the home of beings in-
distinguishable from humans, and
was once the seat of a high civiliza-

tion very like our own of the 40th
century, except in minor details.
There are no noxious animal forms
(th& only beasts are herbivorous
and inoffensive), and there are no
human inhabitants who would re-
sist colonization.

And yet, no matter how over-
crowded the colonized planets may
become, Xilmuch (that was its name
in the dominant native language)
will never be discovered again. It
will never be colonized.

Not after the report Patrick
Ostronsky-Vierra brought back in

3942.

He landed in what seemed to be

54

MARY CELESTIAL

55

its largest city, after a preliminary
survey of the entire planet in his
little one-man scout ship. There
was a beautiful airport, equipped
for planes of every description. It
was not in good repair. Squirrel-like
animals infested the hangars full of
grounded atmosphere-ships. Grass
was growing between cracks in the
wide runways. A storm had leveled
what had been a huge neo-neon
beacon.

Patrick spent two days exploring
the city on foot. There were multi-
tudes of parked surface cars and of
helicopter-like planes, some of which
had crashed and were piles of junk.
All had been propelled by some fuel
unknown to him, all the tanks were,
empty, and he could not find any
stores of fuel that he could recog-
nize. A good many of the main
streets had moving sidewalks under
plastic roofs, and some were stiU
operating by remote control. It was
the sort of civilization which in his
experience implied the services of
robots, but no robots of any kind
were visible.

He explored systematically, start-
ing at one end of the city and cir-
cling closer and closer to the center,
which appeared to be a huge civic or
control area, with overgrown parks,
large imposing buildings, and a for-
est of tri-dimensional televiz masts.
The city itself stood on the banks
of a wide river, an arm of which had
been diverted to run in a circle
around this Civic Center, with
numerous bridges between.

He went in and out of private
houses, what seemed to be hotels,
stores, warehouses, schools, halls,
factories, and one building appar-
ently a center of worship. Not one
solitary human being met him, nor
any other living creature higher in
the scale of evolution than the
equivalent of a cow. The cow-like
creatures were not abundant, but
they looked well fed; apparently
they browsed on the vegetation of
the many parks and gardens. It was
unthinkable that they could be the
dominant race. This civilization had
been built by animals with devel-
oped cortices and opposable thumbs.

The planet was as advanced ar-
tistically as it was scientifically. In
the homes, under thick layers of
dust, were delicate jewels and piles
of beautiful thin coins engraved in
strange designs. The walls of the
larger buildings were all carved in
bas-relief, in a manner nearer to
ancient Mayan art than to any other
Patrick knew. Demonology must
have played a large part in the re-
ligion, for there were numerous
carvings of small winged beings
with long Grecoesque features and
what looked like lightning-bolts for
arms and legs. In the temple, a
grotesque and horrible statue, a
hundred feet high, filled most of
the great nave.

There were no libraries or mu-
seums, no books, no paintings, no
musical instruments, no microfilm.
Yet the inhabitants must have had
some means of visual and auditory

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

56

public communication, judging by
the televiz masts at the Civic
Center.

Patrick camped for his first two
nights in the nearest house, spread-
ing his blanket on a rug because the
beds were too thick in dust. He had
his own food supplies in a knapsack,
•but the stores were full of shelves
of -metal containers obviously
(though he could not understand
the drawings on the labels) with
edible contents. He sampled one or
two, after testing them for harmless-
ness, and found one to be a preserved
fruit with a pleasant subacid flavor,
another a sort of paste resembling
pate de foie gras mixed with caviar.
There was also a pale pink liquid in
a plastic bottle which turned out to
be a delicate wine somewhat like
vin rose.

He felt like a cross between Goldi-
locks and Alice.

On the third day he passed over
a bridge to the Civic Center. The
buildings in their disheveled parks
were grouped around a spreading
stone edifice with a dome, which he
took to be the City Hall. It was
morning, a beautiful sunny summer
day in the bluish whiteness of Altair.
The ragged trees, something like
oaks, were full of white and green
birds, all singing their little hearts
out. A metal fountain, carved in the
likeness of a spreading tree, was
spouting water from the tips of its
branches into a little pond. The
grass was covered with myriads of
low-growing, velvety purple flowers

run wild. Patrick took the broad
road, whose ornamental green and
brown tiles showed wide gaps
through which grassy blades grew
thickly, that led to the central build-
ing. A long flight of steps ended at
a massive bronze-like door, heavily
and intricately carved.

Before his eyes, the door opened.
A man stood for a second in the
doorway, then dashed down the
steps toward him.

Patrick braced himself and reached
for his raygun. But the man’s arms
were opened wide, his mouth was
stretched in an ecstatic smile, and
tears were running down his cheeks.

He was a tall, burly man, seem-
ingly in late middle age; his hair
was white but his movements were
lithe and supple. He was clean-
shaven, and was dressed in a sort of
overall made of a grey fabric which
looked both soft and durable. He
called out something in a harsh
guttural tongue. The scout shook
his head.

“Welcome, welcome to Xilmuch!”
cried the man then in perfect Stand-
ard Galactic. “Who are you? How
did you get here? Where are you
from? I was never so glad to see any-
one in all my life!”

He gave Patrick no time to an-
swer. Seizing him by the arm, he
hustled him inside.

It had been an official building
all right, Patrick could see that.
There was a great lobby rising un-
impeded to the dome, with an
enormous wasteful central staircase.

MAJtY CELESTIAL

57

There were banks of levescalators
on either side, and wide hallways
led to ground-floor ofl&ces with
transparent plastic doors running
from floor to ceiling.

But half the rooms to the right
had been transformed into a dwell-
ing place. Patrick was hurried into
a hving-room whose stone floors
were covered with thick grey rugs
into which his boots sank. There
were couches and low chairs, heavy
cream-colored curtains at all the tall
windows, long tables of a dark
gleaming wood, their legs carved in
flowers and birds.

An inner door opened, revealing
a corner of a white shining room that
must be a kitchen. A woman burst
through it and ran to them.

She was about as old as the man,
sturdy also, but too plump, with
grey hair elaborately curled. She
too was dressed in an overall, but
hers was bright purple and over it
she wore a fancy apron of lace with
pink bows at its corners. She had
been pretty once, in a vapid way —
probably a piquant blonde of the
buttercup-and-daisy variety.

She burst into excited chatter in
■the unknown tongue, clutching at
the man’s hand. Her voice was high
and twittering, with a whine be-
neath it. The man answered her, and
though Patrick could not under-
stand the words, the contemptuous
tone was clear enough. The scolding
ran off her like water; she gazed at
the man meltingly, then turned to
stare angrily at the Terran.

The man disengaged himself from
her. In Galactic he said to the scout:

“Oh, this is wonderful I A visitor
— a visitor at last!

“We must celebrate. We will have
a feast. The last case of rexshan I
could find — I must open it now.
Tell me what you want: if there is
any of it left, it is yours.

“Oh, what a miracle! Somebody
to talk to after so terribly long!”

The woman had sidled up and
cuddled against the man, holding
his hand to her cheek. He jerked
away impatiently, and barked what
must have been an order, for she
nodded brightly and trotted back
to the kitchen, throwing a kiss as
she went. The inan shrugged as if
throwing off a weight and turned to
Patrick with undisguised rehef.

“Sit here,” he said. “It is the most,
comfortable. And now tell me who
you are, my friend, and how you
found me.”

Patrick showed his credentials.
The stranger shook his head. He ex-
plained them in words. The man
nodded sagely.

“I understand. I had never dared
to hope for a visitor from beyond
Xilmuch. But I have heard of space
travel, though we never attained it.”

“And yet you speak Galactic.”

“Is that what it is? That is one of
my — But tell me first — ”

“No, you tell me. Who are you?
What happened to this city? Why
did I see nobody in three days, until
I found you and — and the lady? Is
all your world like this?”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

58

“My name is Zoth — Zoth
Cheruk, but you must call me Zoth,
and I shall call you Patrick. All the
rest you ask — I shall be glad to tell
you everything, but we have plenty
of time. Well talk and talk! But
first I want to know all about you^
your world, how you all five, your
own life — everything. I have been
so starved for conversation — you
can’t imagine how much, or how
long!”

“But oughtn’t we to be helping
the lady?” Patrick asked uneasily.

“Her narrie is Jyk, She is my
wife.” He scowled. “She can man-
age. She cooks well, at least. It will
take her hours; I have ordered all
the best for us. Meanwhile, we will
drink while we wait.”

He opened a tall cabinet with
carved doors and took out goblets
and a squat yellow bottle.

“Not rexshan — we shall have
that at dinner. But almost as good;
it is pure stralp of a very good year.”

He poured an iridescent fiquid.

“You smell it for a few minutes,
then you sip, then you smell it
again,” he explained.

“Like brandy,” Patrick agreed.

“That I do not know. But that is
as good a place to start as any. Tell
me of your foods and drinks.”

There was no help for it. This
guy was going to give in his own
good time only. Planet scouts are
trained in diplomacy. Patrick set-
tled down to being a vocal encyclo-
pedia attached to a question-ma-
chine.

Twice they were interrupted by
calls from the kitchen. Each time
Zoth rose reluctantly and went out,
first replenishing Patrick’s goblet;
he could be heard lifting and setting
down some heavy object, his an-
noyed voice interrupted by his
wife’s cooing tones. The relation
between the two puzzled Patrick
as much as anything else he had
chanced upon in this strange world,
this seeming Mary Celeste of the
space-seas.

Several hours and several glasses
of the iridescent stralp later, he was
feeling only relaxed and very hun-
gry. Zoth’s wife appeared in the
kitchen door, rosy and dimpling.
This time Zoth beamed. “Now we
shall eat,” he said. “We are having a
tender young el^ahir I had been sav-
ing in the freezing- box. I shall bring

• f •

It in.

Jyk — what ought he to call her?
Mrs. Cheruk? — cleared one of the
long tables and from the lower part
of the cabinet took dishes of some
transparent plastic, golden yellow
and delicately etched. She drew
from a drawer knives and spoons —
there were no forks — of a metal
that looked like steel. Patrick hur-
ried to help her. Her manner was
distrait, and she kept glancing
yearningly toward the kitchen.
Presently 2^th entered, bearing a
large tray heaped with steaming
food.

The eltahir turned out to be a
crisply roasted bird, its flesh tasting
like a combination of turkey and

-MARY CELESTIAL

59

duck. Zx>th carved it adroitly, using
a long thin knife with a carved
metal handle, while his wife piled
the plates high with unknown but
interesting-looking vegetables. The
rexshariy poured into tall slender
glasses, proved to be a cool bubbling
wine, with a warm aftertaste and an
insidious effect.

The food was delicious, the drink
delightful, and the Terran’s appetite
sharp; but after his first hunger was
satisfied, Patrick found himself in-
creasingly disquieted.

Something he could not under-
stand was very wrong between these
two. He didn’t need to comprehend
the words they exchanged to realize
that Zoth loathed his wife, and that
she worshiped him. There was scorn
in every harsh command he gave
her, and to each she hastened to
respond with servile promptness. It
got on Patrick’s nerves, until at last
Zoth himself noticed, and made an
obvious effort to restrain himself.

The climax came when Jyk,
watching her husband’s plate with
anxious solicitude, suddenly jumped
from her seat, carried a dish of tart
blue jelly to Zoth’s place, placed a
portion of it on his plate, and caress-
ingly threw her other arm around
his neck just as he was raising a
spoonful of ekahir to his mouth.

The meat fell from his jostled arm
to the table, and he leapt to his feet.
The angry syllables he shouted were
unmistakably a curse.

Then suddenly, before Patrick
could take in what was happening.

Zoth seized the long knife with
which he had carved the bird — and
plunged it full into his wife’s breast.

Patrick dived and caught him by
the arm before he could strike
again. Shaking with horror, he
turned his eyes to the victim.

She was not dead, she had not
fallen, she was not even bleeding.
With a gay laugh she plucked the
knife from her flesh, chirped a few
words in a tone of affectionate teas-
ing, patted her husband’s cheek, and
returned amiably to her place at the
foot of the table, where she calmly
helped herself to more of the jelly.

Patrick’s hand fell. He stood star-
ing in paralyzed astonishment. Zoth
laughed then too — but his laugh
was half a groan.

“Forgive me for interrup.ting our
. meal so impolitely, my friend,” he
said. “Sometimes this woman exas-
perates me beyond endurance —
but, as you see, it does her no harm.”

Patrick could only continue to
stare, as he slowly resumed his seat.

As for Jyk, she sat drinking
rexshariy and smiling at her husband
as a mother smiles at her naughty
child.

Patrick’s appetite was gone; he
sat uncomfortably waiting for an ex-
planation that did not come. Zoth
cleaned the last scrap from his plate,
drained the last drop of rexshariy and
only then addressed a few curt re-
marks to his wife. She rose quickly
and began removing the dishes. The
host turned to his guest.

“Exercise is good after a full

6o

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

meal, Patrick. Let us walk for a
while around the city, and I will
5how you how I get our food and all
our supplies. There is still much I
have not yet asked you about your
world.”

“There is much 7 want to know
also, Zoth,” the Terran reminded
him.

“Later; there is no hurry. When
it is dark I shall send the woman off
to bed alone, and then we shall sit
over glasses of stralp and you may
ask me anything you wish to know.
But now you must tell me more of
this Galactic Presidium, and how it
operates. You say there is an agree-
ment by which hitherto undiscov-
ered planets are opened for col-
onization by whatever life-form is
best adapted to them? You may
imagine how much this interests me,
since I can detect no difference
whatever between your form and
mine — we are akj^ir together.”

— that means human?”

“Yes. And here is a whole empty
world, with all the foundations of
civilization already laid.”

“J am only a scout, you under-
stand,” said Patrick. “I have no
authority.”

“I understand. But your recom-
mendation would have great in-
fluence. I am only wondering how
long it would take. Perhaps it would
be better . . . However, all that
we can discuss later. Now I want to
ask you — ”

Patrick turned again into a vocal
encyclopedia.

Their walk took them to a large
warehouse. 2k)th opened the door.

“Here, you see,” he explained,
“are stored garments made of furs —
furs of the carnivorous animals
which no longer exist on Xilmuch.
When it is cold, and we need warm
clothing, we have only to take our
pick. In the same way, all the stores
and warehouses of the city are open
to us to obtain whatever we desire
in the way of food, clothes, furni-
ture, ornaments — anything at all.
There is only one real scarcity: rhaz,
the fuel by which we run our planes
and cars. I have stored all of that I
could find in our house, which was
once the City Hall, and I use a
vehicle only when it is necessary to
carry heavy loads. Otherwise, 1
walk. One man cannot operate the
rhaz supplier, though when mine is
gone I shall have to find some
way.”

“What about public utilities?”
Patrick asked. “Water, lights, things
like that?”

“Enough is still operating auto-
matically to serve us. Much, of
course, has failed. If, before I — if
we of Xilmuch had only learned to
split the atom, as you say your
world has done — But we hadn’t,
and so, you will understand, there is
great deterioration in such things,
though they could be easily re-
habilitated with sufficient manpower.
After all, it has been fifty years.”

“Fifty years since what?”

“Shall we turn back now? I don’t
want to tire you, and the sun will

MARY celestial

b.c setting soon. There are no street
lights any more, and I shouldn’t hke
you to stumble in our ruts and gul-
lies in the darkness. Besides, Fm
thirsty again, and so must you be.
The woman will have finished clean-
ing up; I shall have her set out some
refreshment for us and send her off.”

They had walked farther than
Patrick had realized; it was twilight
before they crossed the bridge to the
Civic Center where the great dome
dominated the skyline. A glow of
lights came from the right-hand
windows on the first floor, and as
-they mounted the steps they found
Jyk pacing up and down before the
bronze door.

As soon as she glimpsed them, she
ran toward them and threw her arms
around her husband with a babble
of speech. Zoth pulled away im-
patiently.

“The fool thought she had lost
me/’ he said with a wry grin. “This
is the first time I have been this long
out of her sight in 50 years. She in-
sists on following me everywhere I
go, and it’s not worth the trouble to
get rid of her when I have no other
companion — but today, when I
have you — today I ordered her to
stay at home and leave me free. She
has been weeping. I am glad of it.
Let her weep.”

Pretty cool, thought Patrick, for
a man who had just tried to murder
his wife in cold blood, and had failed
to do so only by a miracle!

The big municipal-ofiice-turned-
living-room was aglow with tubes of

61

soft neo-neon light, and he sank
wearily into one of the soft chairs.
The cream-colored curtains were
drawn, but through a gap he could
see the dark sky. This world, he had
found, had no moon; and since the
city lay near the equator, twilight
and dawn were very brief.

He could have done with some
sleep; but after all, a scout is a sort
of diplomat: if his host were looking
forward to a long evening, there was
nothing to do but acquiesce. Besides,
curiosity was scratching at him; he
could make nothing at all of the
personal situation here, and it was
time for Zoth to talk.

Zoth addressed his wife in a series
of staccato remarks. She bustled
obediently into the kitchen, while
her husband laid out the goblets and
fresh bottles of the stralp. In a few
minutes she returned, bearing a
plate heaped with strips of some
crisp white substance ghstening with
what looked like salt. She threw her
arms around her husband’s neck,
and, standing on tiptoe, pressed
kisses on his unresponsive face.
Patrick looked about him nervously,
but this time Zoth stood uncom-
plainingly like a statue, his fists
clenched. He said a few curt words,
and Jyk disentangled herself and
with a rebellious pout bowed un-
smiUngly to Patrick, making no
attempt to dissemble her jealousy.
She departed slowly through an-
other door.

“Ah!” said the host, stretching
luxuriously. “She will not dare to

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

'62

trouble us again tonight.” He poured
the glasses full. “You cannot imagine
what this means to me! At last — an
evening of social conversation with
a congenial friend! I have waited so
long — I had almost ceased to
hope.”

“I think it is your turn to talk
now,” said the scout coldly. ,

“I know. You are right. And I
can see that you are displeased with
me. You think me rude and brutal,
you think I abuse a poor woman
whose only fault is that she adores
me too much. But when you have
heard — ”

“You tried to kill her, at dinner.”

“Precisely: she angered me be-
yond endurance . . . and I
You observed that I did not suc-
ceed.”

Patrick recovered his aplomb.

“I apologize,” he said. “It is not
my business to judge what I cannot
understand. But you will realize I
must.be puzzled.”

“I do indeed. And you are my
friend — my first friend in fifty
years. I will tell you everything you
want to know. Only, it is hard to
know how to start.

“Tell me: in your world, are
there . . . beings . . . persons
that are not human.?”

Patrick smiled indulgently, “Some
people in my world believe so.
Everybody believed so once.”

“Here also. Only, I have proved
that they are real.”

OA, come 720^^/ Patrick thought.
Fairy tales at this point? “You have.?”

he said in his best diplomatic man-
ner.

“As you see about you . . . Then,
have you a story that one may force
such a being to do one’s will.?”

“We do have a myth — a symbol
which has inspired some of our
greatest artists — about selling one’s
soul to the devil — ”

“Oh, as with the Nameless!”
Zoth turned pale and raised his
arms high, the thumbs and fore-
fingers firmly pressed together. “Do
not speak of Him!”

Patrick remembered the terrify-
ing hundred-foot statue in the nave
of the great temple. Unreasoningly,
he knew that this was the Nameless;
and for a moment he felt less scorn-
ful of the fairy tale.

“No,” Zoth went on; “what I
mean is closer to the simple al^r
plane. These are lesser beings, but
powerful enough. If one of them can
be brought into your power, he can
be compelled to grant you five
wishes. You have such.?”

“Fairies, leprechauns, demons
. . . I see what you mean. But on
Earth it is, according to legend,
only three wishes that he grants.”

“You are luckier than we.”

So Zoth’s Standard Galactic, the
scout thought with amusement, was
not so altogether perfect as he had
assumed — luckier when he meant
less lucky, Patrick hid a smile as
Zoth refilled their goblets.

“I shall tell you the whole story.
It is the easiest way to make it
clear.”

MARY CELESTIAL

’ . . . if not necessarily convincing
Patrick thought. And yet^ he asked
himself, have yoUy my bright Galactic
scouU found any normal rational
method of accounting for this deserted
planet^ this celestial Mary Celeste?

“Fifty years ago I was 23 years
old. You look surprised. I can age
like other al^r^ but I can never be
senile.

“I was young. I was poor. I had a
mean job I hated. I was lonely, with
no close friends — I, so gregarious a
man — and I was madly in love with
a girl who would not even look at
me. I was in despair.

“How the grosh was summoned to
me and how he came under my
power I shall not tell you. It would
be too hard to make it plain, and
besides, these are secret things bet-
ter not told. But he came, and I did
subdue him to my will.”

“The grosh — that’s the demon?”

“You may call him so; he is in any
event a being like neither you nor
me, nor any material creature. I
may tell you that my own grand-
father was a vardun — a priest in the
great temple of the Nameless in this
city — and from him, though I my-
self was not chosen to be a vardun^
I had learned many things in my
boyhood.”

He repeated the propitiatory
gesture — the arms raised and the
thumbs and forefingers pressed to-
gether.

“So there I was, with five wishes
at my disposal. Even then — though
I never guessed — ” Zoth shud-

63

dered — “I thought it wise not to
use up all of them at once, but to
keep one at least in reserve. You will
see how wise that was — but still
not wise enough.”

“What does anyone want? Long
life, health, wealth, love, fame per-
haps, though that I did not care
about: and if one’s heart is good,
one wants also good fortune for
others as well. I was canny; I had
speculated long, to get into small
compass as much as possible of the
things I craved and had never had.”

“Understandably,” Patrick
nodded. “We are of different worlds,
Zoth, but of the same nature.”

“So I wished, first, to live to a
hundred years at least, and always in
good health and strength, without
injury or illness. ‘Granted,’ said the
grosh,

“Then I wished, not for great
wealth which may be a burden, but
that I should never lack for any
comfort or luxury I might desire.
And, since I am one who loves my
fellow- beings, loves company and ,
good talk — I, who for fifty years
have spoken only to that silly crea-
ture in there! — I specified that
among these comforts and luxuries
must be the abihty to converse
freely with every person I ever met.
You must realize that in Xilmuch
at that time there were different
communities, all equal, but speaking
different tongues — ”

“You mean, different nations?”

“Of course; that is your word for
them. I intended to travel much,

64

and I wanted to be able to associate
with all whom I met. So this, I
stipulated, must be part of my sec-
ond wish.”

“So that’s how you speak Stand-
ard Galactic, is it? That’s puzzled
me a lot.”

“That is how. And if you had
spoken any other language, I could
have understood and spoken it just
as well.”

“And what was your third wish?”
Patrick began to see a pattern form-
ing — and wished that he did not.

Zoth paced the room, his glass of
stralp in his hand. He glanced fur-
tively at the door through which
jyk had vanished. Then he said in a
shaking voice:

“I told the grosh — the Nameless
forgive me! — that I wished that
the girl with whom I was then so
madly in love should love me in
return, as madly and forever. I
wished that she might be willing to
marry me at once. And I wished
that she should never leave me, but
would live exactly as long as I did
myself.

“And the grosh said, ‘Granted.’ ”

“That’s three wishes.” Patrick
hesitated. “Did you make any
more?”

“One more. Do you know what a
war is?”

“Certainly. It has been centuries
since there has been a war on Earth,
but in the past they were only too
common. Even now, we must guard
vigilantly against hostihty and con-
flict between rival groups.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“We had not progressed so far. At
one time or another, all of our
various — nations, as you call them,
on Xilmuch had been at one an-
other’s throats. We had torn one
another almost to pieces, and as our
science advanced our wars grew still
more terrible. And at that very
moment there was threat of a new
war that would have advanced my
own people, here in this city.

“I was an idealistic young man,
who hated bloodshed. So for my
fourth wish, I wished that every-
where on Xilmuch there should be
complete and perpetual peace.

“ ‘Granted,’ said the grosh.

“These were my four wishes. And
I told the grosh that when I was
ready to make the fifth, I would
summon him: these beings are im-
mortal, you know. I have still not
made it.”

“But I don’t understand,” Patrick
objected. “It seems to me that those
were all practicable wishes. And you
say you had the — the grosh in your
power. Didn’t he really grant
them?”

“He granted them all,” said Zoth.

“As for the first, I am as you see
me. I shall live at least 27 years
more, and I shall never know illness
or bodily pain. That wish I have no
doubt the grosh granted me with
pleasure — knowing that long be-
fore the end I should yearn in vain
for death.

“And I have, as ' you observe,
every comfort and luxury I could
desire. I live in a palace, and I have

MARY CELESTIAL

at my disposal the food, the cloth-
ing, the furniture, all the para-
phernaha of life of a great city. The
supply, easily obtained, will cer-
tainly outlast my lifetime. As for the
ability to converse with my fellow-
beings in their own tongues, it is
only today that I have had occasion
to test it — and that with an a%ir
from a world of outer space. But
you see it was granted to me.”

“But the third wish? What went
wrong about the girl you loved?
How did the demon get out of really
granting you that?”

“He didn’t. ... It was Jyk.”
“Oh.”

“I had thought my heart was
broken when she spurned every
advance I made. Now of her own
accord she came to me: she loved me
wildly, as she always will. I was in
ecstasy. We were married at once. I
was the happiest man on Xilmuch.

“How could I foresee that my
own love would turn to loathing?
But against my will, it did: first she
bored me, then she disgusted me,
now I hate her with all my heart.

“And she will be with me all my
life. She will live exactly as long as I.”

“So that’s why — ” Patrick ex-
claimed.

“Yes, that is why no knife, nor
any other means, can ever rid me of
her.

“I am ashamed that you saw that
scene; it does not happen often. But
can you imagine what it must be
like to have someone, someone you
detest, pester you with constant

65

worship? Sometimes I think I shall
go mad: nothing, nothing will ever
offend or alienate her, and she clings
to me every minute. I know she is
not sleeping now; she will do what-
ever I tell her, but she is waiting
for me right now with open arms; if
I did not go to her eventually, she
would seek me out, wherever I
might be. And for fifty years there
has been no a%ir on Xilmuch t>ut
her and me!”

He paused, fighting for self-con-
trol.

“I don’t want you to think I am
naturally cruel,” he went on in a
calmer voice. ‘‘If I had pity left for
anyone but myself, I should pity
her. But I need not; she is happy
just to be with me, however I treat
her. Nearly always I can pretend
patience. It was only today, when
your coming had so excited me — ”

The scout averted y his eyes.
Quickly, to change the subject, he
asked :

“But your fourth wish? Did the
demon grant you that?”

“Is there not peace on Xilmuch?”
asked Zoth simply.

The Terran was silent. Demons
indeedl But this planet ... the pat-
tern r. . .

“Yes,” his host went on, “the
grosh knew. We akj^r are not made
by nature for perpetual peace — or
we were not so made fifty years ago.
The animals also . . . There is no
animal on this planet now which
fights with others for its mate, or
kills others for its food.

66

FANTASY AND SC?IENCE FICTION

“And there is great and lasting
and perpetual peace today on
Xilmuch.”

Patrick said ’ nothing. His host
filled their glasses.

Finally the Terran broke the
silence.

“Is there no way,” he said hesi-
tantly, “by which, with the wisdom
you have acquired, you could use
the fifth wish still at your disposal to
undo some of the evil the demon
did you?”

You might wish, Patrick thought,
to return your wife's love once more,
and salvage that much out of the mess;
but probably it's too late for that now,

Zoth shook his head.

“Do you think I haven’t worn
myself out trying to find some way?
The truth is, Patrick, I’ve been
afraid to wish again — afraid he will
twist that also to his own evil advan-
tage. And then I should be com-
pletely defenseless, at his mercy.

“It is only today, my friend, that
a bit qf hope has^come to me. How
could even a grosh, I wonder, spoil
so modest a wish? It is little enough
to ask — I’ve been so horribly
lonely — ”

He looked long and speculatively
at the Terran.

Patrick drained the last of his
stralp and stood up. He felt himself
trembling.

“Zoth,” he said apologetically, “I
hate to break this up, but I’m afraid
I’m asleep on my feet. Let’s go to
bed now, shall we? Tomorrow’s an-
other day.”

“Oh, my friend, forgive me! Of
course — you must be worn out!
What a way to treat a guest — and a
guest who means so much to me!
You must excuse an old man who
has half a century of conversation
to make up! I’ll show you where you
are to sleep.”

He led the way through still a
third door to another huge room, a
corner of which had been screened
off to hold a low couch covered with
some soft woolly fabric.

“My guestroom,” he smiled. “You
are the first ever to occupy it. I hope
you will find it comfortable. Right
through here you will find the toilet
faciUties. You turn the light off
thus.

“Sleep well, my friend. I shall be
sleeping late in the morning myself
— I don’t often keep such hours as
this. When you wake, come to the
living hall, and a meal will be ready
for you.”

Patrick was alone at last.

He made no attempt to undress
or go to bed. He had brought his
knapsack in with him, and he
checked its contents. Then he sat
quietly on the edge of the couch,
thinking.

He sat there for two solid hours,
until there was no glimmer of light
anywhere aiid from a distant room
came the sound of faint but steady
snoring.

The tall windows opened out-
wards, and this was the ground floor.
Outside, he put on his boots.

It was very dark. No one could

MARY CELESTIAL

have seen him as he crept from tree
to tree, in the shadow of the over-
grown ornamental bushes, to the
nearest bridge.

Once across, he set out at as rapid
a pace as possible. Even so, it took
three hours, and the sky was begin-
ning to gray, before he reached his
ship.

An hour later, well beyond the
orbit of Xilmuch, he began to won-
der if he had made a fool of himself.

. . . Who ever heard of the en-
tire population of a planet’s being
wiped out, just to grant somebody’s
wish for worldwide peace? Space
knew, there were enough other
roads to devastation! Wasn’t the
reasonable conclusion that in some
entirely natural way, some epidemic
or other frightful catastrophe on
Xilmuch, only this man and his
wife had survived? Wouldn’t it be
logical that such a shock would have
crazed them both? Hadn’t he spent
a day and a night listening to the
tale of a lunatic?

It was obvious that the man was
desperately lonely, and would have
kept his chance guest just as long
as he could; but did it make sense
that he could have done so by
merely uttering an unused wish?
Wasn’t Patrick Ostronsky-Vierra
just as crazy as Zoth Cheruk to
swallow such a story, even late at
night and full of rexshan and stralp?

. . . But then why were there no
carnivorous animals on Xilmuch,
but plenty of herbivorous ones and
every sort of vegetation? Catas-

67

trophes were not quite so selective
as that.

And how , . . how else could
Zoth have plunged a knife deep
into his wife’s breast — Patrick’s
horror-stricken eyes had seen the
blade go in to the handle — and
draw not a single drop of blood,
elicit no sign of pain?

Xilmuch would be a wonderful
planet for colonization. Its discov-
ery would be the climax of his career
as a scout; there would be no limit
to his rise in the profession after
that.

And how Zoth would welcome
the colonists!

. . . And what unguessed harm
he could do them unwittingly by
that fifth wish of his!

In twenty-seven years or so Zoth
and Jyk would both be dead. Zoth
could do no harm then. But what
would the Galactic Presidium think
if a scout should announce that here
was a perfect colonization-point —
only it must not be approached
while an old man was still alive who
might jinx them?

And with or without Zoth, how
about a planet evidently full of mis-
chievous, rancorous, double-crossing
groshy with who knew what bags of
tricks in their possession?

To say nothing of the Nameless,
that distinctly unpretty god or devil
whose image Patrick had seen for
himself.

Patrick Ostronsky-Vierra, trusted
and dedicated Two Star Scout, de-

68 FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

cided deliberately to violate his
sacred oath of office.

When he returned to the head-
quarters of the Galactic Presidium,
his report read :

“I visited Planet IV of Altair,
which has been hitherto undiscov-
ered, and which on first approach
appeared to be suitable for coloniza-
tion. On further investigation I
found that the atmosphere consists
mostly of methane. The planet itself
is still in a semi-molten state, with
incessant volcanic eruptions and
violent wind-storms of ethane gas.

“I advise that the planet be given
a wide berth — permanently. It is
completely unfit for human habita-
tion.”

But there was another report: a
private one. It was found among
Ostronsky-Vierra’s effects after his
death in 4009. It was in a plastic
closure marked: For the Sealed Files
of the Galactic Presidium, To Be
Opened 50 Years after Receipt,

In it was this complete narrative
as I, Mari Swenskold-Wong, Secre-

tary of the Presidium in this year
4060, read it to the entire Presidium
at its meeting upon February 30.

We are still, as everyone knows,
in great need of more living-space
in the colonized planets. There has
been much discussion of the possi-
bility of colonizing Xilmuch, atid
there will be much more^ discussion,
perhaps even insistence upon the
part of the Opposition.

But the majority opinion, in
which I concur, is that no foreseeable
Galactic situation, even the mount-
ing pressure of expansion, can justify
sending colonists to what Ostronsky-
Vierra justly labeled the Mary
Celeste of space. Empty of Zoth
Cheruk and his Jyk it must be by
now, but not of its Nameless and its
grosh (and who can say what power-
ful type of unknown life-forrn hides
behind these supernatural masks?).

Superstitious, I hope I may safely
say, we surely are not; but neither
are we, in our Chairman’s ringing
words, “reckless damn fools.” There
are other worlds.

"Recommended Reading

by THE EDITOR

All right, boys; let’s face it:
What science fiction boom?

For something over five years
now we’ve been being told, in serious
articles in learned journals, that s.f.
is the great new American cultural
phenomenon, that its devotees are
numbered in the millions, that it
threatens the existence of such other
forms of escape as the mystery novel,
that its popularity reveals strange
and terrifying things about the
psyche of Twentieth Century
Man . . .

But where is the actual evidence
of any real boom?

Let’s look at the various fields
involved :

Boo/{S: I’m writing this column
in mid-February; as a reviewer I’ve
received advance copies of most
publications through the first couple
of weeks of March. For my New
York Times column on mysteries.
I’ve received 37 new hardcover
novels — rather an off year; it was
50 at this point in 1954.

Know how many hardcover s.f.
novels I’ve received? Exactly 3; and
of these, one is a group of magazine
novelets loosely assembled into a
quasi-novel, another is a British
import adapted from a radio play.

To be sure there have been 4 an-
thologies; regular readers know my
opinions on the health of a field
which subsists largely on antholo-
gization. And there’ve been 4 paper-
back novels; but these were a minute
percentage of the total paper out-
put, and most of them were of pretty
negligible quality.

In short, after more than five
years of experiment and promotion,
science fiction is not a significant
part of book publishing.

Magazines: Here the picture looks
superficially a little brighter. One
can say that the number of “good”
s.f. magazines (“good” both in edi-
torial standards and in payment of
acceptably, if still not lavish, fees to
authors) has, in the past six years,
increased by 200 or 300% — which
sounds far more impressive than say-
ing that there are now three or four
such magazines instead of one. There
are still an astonishing number of
titles on the stands (they come and
go so fast that it’s hard to state
figures, but I’d estimate around 20
to 25 when this appears); but most
of those magazines are struggling
along on minute circulations, paying
their authors infinitesimal sums
(often long after publication), and

69

70

THE EDITORS

living in the shadow of the bank-
ruptcy courts.

Movies: There have been a few
good science fiction films in the past
few years (destination moon, the

DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL . . .).

But then there have always been a
few good s.f. films (things to come,

FRANKENSTEIN, METROPOLIS and SO

oh back to Georges M^li^s).

(Readers particularly interested
in the history of science-fantasy on
the screen should consult the highly
informative checklist of some 600
titles in the Spring issue of the ama-
teur magazine It, which may be
ordered for 25c from Walter W.
Lee, Jr., 1205 S. loth St., Coos Bay,
Ore.)

Most of Hollywood’s nominally
s.f. product, however, seems to fall
into two categories: “human in-
terest” stories of acute scientific
illiteracy, or crude quickies for
kiddie matinees. I expect to read,
any day, of the completion of Ab-
bott AND COSTELLO MEET KIMBALL
KINNISON.

Television: Surely if the love for
science fiction is sweeping the coun-
try, all the sexes from Maine to
Texas should be demanding it on
their home viewing screens. But
there is not a single program bn the
air devoted to s.f. for adults.

I have a feeling that this situation
may be something like one that
existed in radio before 1939. It
seems wholly incredible today; but
before the success of the Ellery
Queen show, all advertising agency

and network executives were unan-
imous in maintaining, as a matter
of principle, that a detective story
was impossible on the air. Science
fiction on TV has yet to find such
an icebreaker as Queen (perhaps a
series based on Heinlein’s Future
History ....?). There’s been, so
far as I know, only one attempt at
a regular adult s.f. series; and that
was so poorly executed, as science,
as fiction, or as television, that its
deserved failure simply confirmed
the executives in their prejudice.

A little s.f. is slowly sneaking into
TV. MEDIC has offered a dramatiza-
tion of an H-bomb raid on Los
Angeles (not yet broadcast at this
writing, so I can’t comment). And
space travel has received the honor
of a full-hour original TV-play on
STUDIO ONE, and the ultimate in-
dignity of a half hour starring Red
Skelton. Unfortunately, the serious
play contained little more plausibil-
ity and originality than the Skelton
script, and was devoted entirely to
the emotionalization of the anti-
science fiction (and indeed anti-
science) thesis that “Man isn’t built
for space.”

Tentative conclusions: Rarely has
any phenomenon been so dispropor-
tionately publicized as “the science
fiction boom.” It seems so plausible
that history’s most technological
civilization should find its most
popular expression in the literature
of imaginative technology that crit-
ics have casually assumed that the
plausibility is a fact . . . while the

RECOMMENDED READING

public has calmly gone on reading
about sex and violence, or the latest
slick variant of the Cinderella story.

I honestly believe, as a critic, that
s.f. has stimulating values, both in
esthetics and as entertainment, to
offer to all readers. But the fact
remains that s.f. editors and authors
(and one true and unfortunate
“boom” is the large number of tal-
ented new writers attracted, by all
the publicity, to a field too small to
support them) are not reaching
nearly so wide an audience as is
supposed.

A number of critics (including
me) said that science fiction at the
end of World War II stood where
the detective story did at the end of
World War I. The statement was not
inaccurate; but the developments in
the post-war decade have not been
remotely comparable. Somewhere
we (the editors and authors) have
slipped; and if you (the readers)
have any ideas on where, Fd be
very interested in hearing them.
You, now reading this, have pre-
sumably been converted to an in-
terest in this type of imaginative
literature — any ideas on how to
make further conversions?

To turn to the few new books
(not covering all of those cited above
because a couple of just-received
items are still unread), plus some
hitherto neglected leftovers from
1954:

NEW NOVELS

The only Grade A long fiction of
1955 to date is so exceedingly good

71

as to compensate for any number of
duller items, earthlight (Ballan-
tine, $2.75*; paper, 35c) represents
Arthur C. Clarke at his best — and
what is better in modern s.f.? This
is Clarke in his quietly factual (yet
poetically illuminating) vein, a con-
vincingly real, scientifically detailed
story of the near future, yet infused
with that sense of wonder and ex-
citement that we sometimes think
vanished from literature around the
time our voices changed. Plot:
counterespionage on the moon dur-
ing a threatened revolt of the plane-
tary colonies. Special features: count-
less new sidelights on the probabili-
ties of life on the moon, a stunningly
different scene of a rescue in space,
one of the all-time great space bat-
tles — and serious novelistic consid-
eration of problems of loyalty and
morality. Verdict: More books like
this and there’d probably be no
need for the questions/ I posed
above.

James Blish’s earthman, come
home (Putnam’s, $3.50*) is an as-
semblage of his OJ^e novelets from
Astounding and elsewhere, making a
vast and vague novel which does
little justice to a fascinating concept;
though you are constantly told that
the scene is (magnificent idea!) the
entire city of New York converted
into a migrant space-mercenary, it
never sounds like anything but just
another spaceship, with the usual
cardboard crew. Jack Finney’s the
BODY SNATCHERS (Dell, 25c) has,
oddly, exactly the same theme as

72

THE EDITORS

Philip K. Dick’s The Father-Thing
(F&SF, December, 1954): the hid-
den growth of soulless facsimiles
which take over the places of human
beings. A fair number of inconsist-
encies and inaccuracies prevent
wholehearted acceptance of the book
as science fiction; but Mr. Finney is,
as always, intensely readable and
unpredictably ingenious. Harold
Rein’s few were left (John Day,
$3.50*) is, I guess, borderline s.f.;
presumably its unspecified disaster
is the atomic destruction of Man-
hattan. The attempt of a handful of
survivors to create a new life in the
subway tunnels is a promising
theme; but oversimplified charac-
terization and lack of story-move-
ment make it a fairly dull book.

Noted for completists only: Algis
Budrys’ false night (Lion, 25c);
Robert Moore Williams’ the chaos
FIGHTERS (Ace, 25c); Murray Lein-
ster’s THE OTHER SIDE OF HERE (Ace,
35c). The Leinster (a rewrite of the

INCREDIBLE INVASION from AstOUnd'
ingy 1936) does, however, include in
the same volume A. E. van Vogt’s
incomparable hypergalactic fantasy-
melodrama, THE WEAPON MAKERS
(now retitled one against eter-
nity), which is an imperative
purchase.

SHORT STORIES

Published and reviewed as
“straight” fiction, J. B. Priestley’s
THE OTHER PLACE (Harper, $3*) is
actually a pure science-fantasy vol-
ume, and a fine one. Priestley has
long been obsessed by the imagina-

tive potential of Time, and particu-
larly by J. W. Dunne’s serial-uni-
verse concepts. You’ll recall the
plays dangerous corner and . i
HAVE been here BEFORE, the recent
novel THE magicians, the short
story The Strange Girl (F&SF, Janu-
ary, 1954). This new book brings
you that story and 8 others of the
same kind, wonderfully evocative
variations on a theme, rich in their
ingenious thinking about time and
in their full-bodied creation of con-
trasting eras.

Lloyd Arthur Eshbach has ren-
dered immeasurable service to s.f.
readers as owner-publisher-editor of
Fantasy Press and Polaris Press.
Anyone who has published Russell’s
DEEP SPACE, Williamson’s darker
THAN YOU THINK, and Stevens’ the
HEADS OF CERBERUS has earned a
perfect right to bring out a collec-
tion of his own short stories and
novelets. But I think ydur opinion
of Mr. Eshbach will remain higher
if you fail to read the 9 unfortunate
stories, ranging from 1932 to new
and unpublished, gathered together
as TYRANT OF TIME (Fantasy Press,

$ 3 *)-

ANTHOLOGIES

Frederik Pohl’s star science fic-
tion STORIES NO. 3 (Ballantine,
$2*; paper, 35c) is easily the best of
the anthologies to be considered
here, if pretty far short of being the
best in its series. There are, surpris-
ingly, some tired stories here —
old hands very competently telling
tales that you’ve read often enough

recommended reading

already. But there are also bright
fresh vigorous entries by Chad
Oliver and Philip K. Dick and
Richard Matheson; and even the
less shining items are never mere
padded hackwork.

Which reminds me that space-
pressure has always managed to
squeeze out earlier mention of
Pohl’s STAR SHORT NOVELS (Ballan-
tine, $2*; paper, 35c), published last
year. This is indeed a strange, un-
satisfactory, yet certainly not negli-
gible book. In its three stories (from
17 to 25,000 words apiece), Jessamyn
West attempts her first s.f. with
skilled prose, a fine concept, and no
logical development; Lester del Rey
devotes fine storytelling to perhaps
the most powerful idea yet con-
ceived in theological science fiction,
but wholly fails in making his theo-
logical notion believable; and Theo-
dore Sturgeon tosses off coruscant
pyrotechnics about nothing at all.
In short, an exasperating collection
— but worth looking into.

Harold W. Kuebler’s the treas-
ury OF SCIENCE FICTION CLASSICS

(Hanover, $2.95) makes the snob-
appeal pitch of trying to show that
the best science fiction has flourished
outside of the s.f. magazines. It’s a
hodgepodge of anthology favorites
and meaningless “excerpts” from
novels, with inadequate and inac-
curate editorial comment. The enor-
mous book (a third of a million
words!) is a bargain, and contains
some excellent reading; but any-
thing of value you’re sure to have

73

on your shelves already in some
better collection.

Joseph Gallant’s stories of sci-
entific IMAGINATION (Oxford Book
Co., 70c) is something of a land-
mark: an anthology of s.f. for use in
schools! The editor argues con-
vincingly that “science fiction seems
to provide a natural medium for
reading in core-curriculum classes,”
because such classes are “a fusion of
sciences, social studies, and Eng-
lish.” The book is not of interest to
the regular s.f. reader; the stories,
largely good, have all been previ-
ously reprinted, most of them sev-
eral times; but you might bring it to
the attention of yoiir children’s
teachers. It’s a pity that a school
text contains so many errors (17
mistakes in a bibliographic listing of
22 titles!); but maybe core-curric-
ulum teachers are less particular
than old-fashioned hidebound aca-
demicians.

No review, of course, but I can’t
help calling your attention to one
other recent anthology: the best
FROM f&sf: fourth series, edited
by Anthony Boucher (Doubleday,
$3.50*). Fifteen stories (adorned by
7 verses) from the 1954 issues of this
magazine — I hope you’ll like it.

NON-FICTION

Robert Lindner’s the fifty-min-
ute HOUR (Rinehart, $3.50*) is
subtitled “a collection of true psy-
choanalytic tales,” and Max Lerner’s
introduction points out that Lindner
has, in the psychoanalytic tale,

74

THE EDITORS

created virtually a new artform. The
longest of the 5 tales is of intense
interest to readers of s.f.: The Jet-
Propelled Couch, the extraordinary
narrative of a research physicist
who retreated into a science fictional
world of his own creation, a galactic
future ^o consistently real as to
entrap even the analyst. It’s a true
story reminiscent of the best fiction
of the Kuttners, and nowise to be
missed.

And then there are the books
about the saucers. . . . Cedric Al-
lingham’s flying saucer from
MARS (British Book Centre, $2.75*)
is about how the author met, chatted
with and photographed a Martian
saucerman in Scotland on February
18, 1954. Leonard G. Cramp’s

SPACE, GRAVITY AND THE FLYING
SAUCER (British Book Centre, $3*)
is about the “Unity of Creation
Theory,” which explains how sau-
cers move by controlling gravita-
tional fields and why rockets will
never get us into space. Harold T.
Wilkins’ flying saucers on the
ATTACK (Citadel, $3.50*) is about
how the saucers represent an attack-
ing enemy and we must abandon all
these sissy ideas of welcoming friends
from space. Personally, I’ll confess,
I collect these damned things and
wouldn’t miss a word of any one of
them; you, on the other hand, may
be better off with your hobby of
collecting used Sears, Roebuck cata-
logs.

HUMOR

Fantasy-Times recently described
Mad as “the non-scieiice-fiction
comic book that is read by most
science fiction fans.” I think this is
true; at least I hope it is, and should
like to change most to alL To at-
tempt to describe Mad's satire is
simply to pile up such adjectives as
trenchant. Rabelaisian, lusty, gusty,
busty, penetrating, vershlugginer.
. . . You’ll find a rich sampling in
Harvey Kurtzman’s the mad reader
(Ballantine, 35c) — all fantasy to
some extent, I suppose, and two
sequences {Superduperman and Flesh
Garden) s.f., complete with mad
scientists, mad artists and happily
mad readers.

Both Ronald Searles’s the female
approach (Knopf, $3.50*) and
Charles Addams* homebodies (Si-
mon & Schuster, $2.95*) were listed
in F&SF’s Best-of-1954 but never
properly reviewed here — chiefly
because I find myself speechless be-
fore two such masters. Max Beer-
bohm paid the precise tribute to
Searles when he wrote: “There
seems to be no bounds to your
strangely inventive faculty, and to
your power of converting the maca-
bre into the most pleasurable of
frolics.” The same words could be
justly written to Addams. Both men
think and draw as well, and in the
same manner, as John Collier writes;
and this department has no higher
superlatives in stock.

* Books marked with an asterisk may be ordered (irom F&SF’s Readers* Book Service. For
details, see page 2.

Do you want to know what type of man stands the best chance of surviving
the holocaust of his world? You ll learn the answer in this brief and pointed
item which isy like most Mathesons, not quite like any other story youve
read.

Pattern for Survival

by RICHARD MATHESON

And they stood beneath the crystal
towers^ beneath the polished heights
which, like scintillant mirrors, caught
rosy sunset on their faces until their
city was one vivid, coruscated blush,

Ras slipped an arm about the waist
of his beloved,

''Happy?'' he inquired, in a tender
voice.

"Oh, yes," she breathed, "Here in
our beautiful city where there is peace
and happiness for all, how could I
be anything but happy?"

Sunset cast its roseate benediction
upon their soft embrace.

THE END

The clatter ceased, his hands
curled in like blossoms and his
eyes fell shut. The prose was wine.
It trickled on the taste buds of
his mind, a dizzying potion. Tve
done it again, he recognized, by
George in heaven, Tve done it
again.

Satisfaction towed him out to
sea. He went down for the third

time beneath its happy drag. Sur-
facing then, reborn, he estimated
wordage, addressed envelope, slid
in manuscript, weighed total, af-
fixed stamps and sealed. Another
brief submergence in the waters of
delight, then up withal and to the
mailbox.

It was almost twelve as Richard
Allen Shaggley hobbled down the
quiet street in his shabby overcoat.
He had to hurry or he’d miss the
pick-up and he mustn’t do that.
Ras And The City of Crystal was too
superlative to wait another day. He
wanted it to reach the editor im-
mediately. It was a certain sale.

Circuiting the giant, pipe-strewn
hole (When, in the name of heaven
would they finish repairing that
blasted sewer?), he hmped on hur-
riedly, envelope clutched in rigid
fingers, heart a turmoil of vibration.

Noon. He reached the mailbox
and cast about anxious glances for
the postman. No sign of him. A sigh
of pleasure and relief escaped his

75

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

76

chapped lips. Face aglow, Richard
Allen Shaggley listened to the en-
velope thump gently on the bottom
of the mailbox.

The happy author shuffled off,
coughing.

AFs iegs were bothering him
again. He shambled up the quiet
street, teeth gritted slightly, leather
sack pulling down his weary
shoulder. Getting old, he thought,
haven’t got the drive any more.
Rheumatism in the legs. Bad ; makes
it hard to do the route.

At twelve fifteen, he reached the
dark green mailbox and drew the
keys from his pocket. Stooping,
with a groan, he opened up the
box and drew out its contents.

A smiling eased his pain- tensed
face; he nodded once. Another yarn
by Shaggley. Probably be snatched
up right away. The man could
really write.

Rising with a grunt, Al slid the
envelope into his sack, relocked
the mailbox, then trudged off, still
smiling to himself. Makes a man
proud, he thought, carrying his
stories; even if my legs do hurt.

Al was a Shaggley fan.

When Rick arrived from lunch
a little after three that afternoon,
there was a note from his secretary
on the desk.

New ms, from Shaggley just ar-
rtvedy it read. Beautiful job. Don't
forget R.A. wants to see it when
you're through. S.

Delight cast illumination across
the editor’s hatchet face. By George
in heaven, this was manna from
what had threatened to be a fruit-
less afternoon. Lips drawn back in
what, for him, was smiling, he
dropped into his leather chair, re-
strained empathic finger twitchings
for the blue pencil (No need of it
for a Shaggley yarn!) and plucked
the envelope from the cracked glass
surface of his desk. By George, a
Shaggley story; what luck! R.A.
would beam.

He sank into the cushion, in-
stantly absorbed in the opening
nuance of the tale. A tremor of
transport palsied outer sense. Breath-
less, he plunged on into the story
depths. What balance^ what delinea-
tionl How the man could write.
Distractedly, he brushed plaster dust
off his pin-stripe sleeve.

As he read, the wind picked up
again, fluttering his straw-like hair,
buffeting like tepid wings against
his brow. Unconsciously, he raised
his hand and traced a delicate finger
along the scar which trailed like
livid thread across his cheek and
lower temple.

The wind grew stronger. It moaned
by pretzeled I-beams and scattered
brown- edged papers on the soggy
rug. Rick stirred restlessly and
stabbed a glance at the gaping fissure
in the wall (When, in the name of
heaven, would they finish those
repairs.?), then returned, joy re-
newed, to Shaggley’s manuscript.

Finishing at last, he fingered away

PATTERN FOR SURVIVAL

a tear of bittersweetness and de-
pressed an intercom key.

“Another check for Shaggley,” he
ordered, then tossed the snapped-
off key across his shoulder.

At three-thirty, he brought the
manuscript to R.A.’s office and
left it there.

At four, the publisher laughed
and cried over it, gnarled fingers
rubbing at the scabrous bald patch
on his head.

Old hunchbacked Dick Allen set
type for Shaggley’s story that very
afternoon, vision blurred by happy
tears beneath his eyeshade, liquid
coughing unheard above the busy
clatter of his machine.

The story hit the stand a little
after six. The scar-faced dealer
shifted on his tired legs as he read
it over six times before, reluctantly,
offering it for sale.

At half past six, the little bald-
patched man came hobbling down
the street. A hard day’s work, a
well-earned rest, he thought, stop-
ping at the corner newsstand for
some reading matter.

He gasped. By George in heaven.

77

a new Shaggley story I What luck!

The only copy too. He left a
quarter for the dealer who wasn’t
there at the moment.

He took the story home, sham-
bling by skeletal ruins (Strange,
those burned buildings hadn’t been
replaced yet), reading as he went.

He finished the story before ar-
riving home. Over supper, he read
it once again, shaking his lumpy head
at the marvel of its impact, the un-
breakable magic of its workman-
ship. It inspires me, he thought.

But not tonight. Now was the
time for putting things away: the
cover on the typewriter, the shabby
overcoat, threadbare pin-stripe, eye-
shade, mailman’s cap and leather
sack all in their proper places.

He was asleep by ten, dreaming
about mushrooms. And, in the morn-
ing, wondering once again why
those first observers had not de-
scribed the cloud as more like a
toadstool.

By six A.M. Shaggley, breakfested,
was at the typewriter.

This is the story^ he wrote, of how
Ras met the beautiful priestess of
Shahglee and she fell in love with him.

Note :

If you enjoy The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fic-
tion, you will like some of the other Mercury Publications:

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
Mercury Mystery Books
Bestseller Mystery Books
Jonathan Press Mystery Books

**lVe will,** Arthur Clarke declares ringingly in prelude to space, **take
no frontiers into space**; and many of us look upon the interplanetary age
as one that will at last unite men and reaffirm their brotherhood. But, Mr.
McIntosh suggests, may not the very act of going into space create new
frontiers? Can men, after generations of specialised adaptation to their
various different new worlds, still regard each other as brothers? This is
the central question in a novelet of galactic politics — not the Graustarkian
palace-politics of interstellar romances, but the solid practicalities of party-
strategy, voting-booth politics — written, as one always expects of this
warmly observant young Scot, with primary emphasis upon people.

Eleventh Commandment

hy j. T. McIntosh

*T JUST WANT TO REMIND YOU ONCE

again, said the suave radio voice
apologetically, '"that the intermarriage
poll is being held throughout the
galaxy on Friday . .

“Could anyone forget?” Gerry
murmured incredulously as he waited
in the lounge for Wyn. “Could any-
one possibly forget, I wonder?”

“What was that you said, Gerry?”
called Wyn from the bedroom.

“Nothing, honey.”

“Don’t mumble, then. It’s a deli-
cate operation getting myself into
this dress, and I need all my con-
centration.”

Another set reproduced the an-
nouncer’s voice. "Everyone who is
over twenty-one and not certified insane

has a votefi he said reassuringly.
"Please use it*'

“Here’s two who will,” said Moyra,
looking up into Bob’s eyes. “But
anyway — could they stop us getting
married, darling, even if . . . ?”

“They could,” said Bob briefly.

“I just don’t believe it,” said
Moyra. “Oh, I know some people
will act nasty to us — you expect
that — but I can’t imagine them
really . . .”

"Merely because the question at
issue doesn't seem to concern you the
announcer went on, through a third
radio, "don't waste your vote. Ma!^
up your mind. Listen to the AMAB
arguments and the Realist point of
view, decide which party to support.

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

79

and on Friday^ doiit forget to do
it ...”

Adam switched off the radio with
unnecessary violence.

“Darling, I was listening!” Elis
protested, looking up from the mirror
in which she had been surveying
herself critically.

“It’s all nonsense,” said Adam.

He frowned.

“I guess it is at that. They only
want to know how people feel. . . .
There can’t be any question of
actually doing anything — ”

“We’ve got enough worries with-
out that,” Adam muttered.

Elis swung round and caught his
wrist hard. It was a masculine gesture,
as if she was the dominant partner.
“Don’t talk like that,” she said
sharply. “We’ll get money somehow.
We always have, haven’t we?”

She snapped the switch on again.

Through all the sets, the one in
Gerry and Wyn’s maisonette, the
one in Moyra’s flat, the one in Elis’s
cheap hotel bedroom, and probably
through a million others, the an-
nouncer spoke with gentle reproach:

''If s a very important question^ and
every local council wants to get as
near a hundred per cent poll as possible,
Eastover is famed for its progressive^
well-informed social consciousness ^ and
Jordan particularly is hpown for its
forward-looking ...”

“That,” sighed Gerry, nodding
out of the window as Wyn joined
him, already wearing her ankle-
length cape. “You needn’t have

hurried, darUng. We can’t go out
for a while yet.”

II

It was raining in Jordan.

That’s like saying grass is green
or light is bright. But it’s worth
saying nevertheless, for sometimes
grass isn’t green, sometimes light
isn’t bright — and sometimes it isn’t
raining in Jordan.

It wasn’t Jordan’s heavy, fierce,
bouncing rain, nor Jordan’s warm,
treacly downpour. It was Jordan’s
steady, lukewarm drizzle which, so
much more than the other two
varieties, seems perfectly capable of
going on forever.

The streets were almost deserted,
though it was still early evening. In
the hard, blurred glare of the street
lamps, poll bills in heavy black
type screamed silently to no one at
all, for the few people who were in
the wet, glistening streets were
hurrying along.

There wasn’t much to show that
Jordan was on Eastover, in the Rotel
system, and not on Earth. In day-
time the much yellower though
brighter sun gave sufficient clue,
without anything else; at night,
when the sky was overcast, almost
all the differences disappeared and
Jordan was like any modern Terran
city where it happened to be raining.

The rain stopped abruptly, but
apparently not entirely unexpect-
edly — for almost instantly the
streets were alive with people hurry-
ing about in all directions: people

So

who seemed to know to the second
when the rain would start again, just
as they had known when it was
going to stop. Even on Eastover,
even in Jordan, people preferred not
to be drenched if they could help
it. And they developed a weather
sense which told them when they
could get somewhere dry. Or at
least, when they could try.

Wyn and Gerry were two units
in the crowd, hustling together from
the southeast. Not many streets
away, from the north, Adam and
Elis hurried southwards, two more
scurrying, paired-off units. From
due east came Bob and Moyra, half
walking, half running, trying to
beat the rain which they knew was
coming on again soon.

And from the south came another
unit, but a solitary unit, a calm,
unhurried unit. Mackenzie wouldn’t
run because mere rain threatened.
He stalked deliberately through the
shorter, fatter, quicker, scuttling,
undignified thousands who cared
about time, about their clothes,
about getting wet. He was tall and
thin and his clothes were tight. He
didn’t wear a top hat, but that
didn’t matter. Spiritually he was
top-hatted.

Just as Wyn and Gerry saw the
lights of the Savoy, the threatened
drizzle resumed. It drizzled only for
an instant, however — then it ceased
to be the drizzle and became the
warm, sticky downpour.

The crowds in the streets dis-
solved like sugar cubes* Wyn and

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Gerry got a dark doorway to them-
selves. They neither knew nor cared
what happened to everybody else.

“Let’s chance it,” said Gerry,
his eye measuring the distance across
the swimming street to the neon-lit
canopy of the Savoy.

“No, no, no!” wailed Wyn, horri-
fied at the suggestion. “My dress
can’t take it — the rain must go
off soon!”

“Because your dress can’t take
it,” said Gerry, nodding understand-
ingly. It was no use refusing to
understand Wyn — he had married
her peculiar feminine logic as well
as the rest of her.

He had to disagree, however, after
looking round, smelling the rain,
making faces at it and rolling it
round on his tongue, as it were.
“Sorry, Wyn,” he said. “I’m afraid
it’s on for quite a while. Want to
stay here all night, honey.?”

Wyn was a honey, even in the
harsh street lighting, even wrapped
in a shapeless raincoat. Not a beauty,
that’s something else again. Wyn’s
little white face had piquancy, vi-
tality, infinite capacity for delight,
and no classical regularity whatever.
She was a laughing urchin, but a
feminine urchin. There was nothing
boyish about Wyn.

Gerry was just the kind of man
to go with her, big, protective,
understanding, and with a vast,
enveloping sense of humor.

They were both Eastoverans.That,
perhaps, is important.

“Oh, look, Wyn!” Gerry e^-

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

claimed, looking over her shoulder.
“There’s Mackenzie.”

Wyn snarled with astonishing fe-
rocity. “Why should I want to see
Mackenzie, now or ever?” she de-
manded. But she looked all the same.
She was the kind of girl who would
say “I won’t look!” and peer through
her fingers.

He marched through the rain,
imperturbably, implacably, like some-
thing out of Dickens. One felt his
name should be Fen berg or Tuckle
or Markwell. Yet he wasn’t one of
the funny Dickensian characters.
There was something menacing about
him, quietly menacing, as if he was
going to walk past you or over you
or through you whenever you hap-
pened to be in his way — just as
he was ignoring the rain as some-
thing of no account.

“He’s going to the Savoy!” Wyn
'exclaimed. “The nerve of it!”

“He’ll have to pay to get in,”
said Gerry philosophically. “If all
the Realists come tonight, so much
the better.”

Mackenzie could hardly have
heard them through the drumming
and swishing of the rain. Neverthe-
less, he turned abruptly like a radio-
controlled robot and marched to-
wards them, squelching.

“Ah, the delightful Youngs!” he
said, stopping about three feet away
from them, still in the rain, still
ignoring it. “What a pity we are
enemies. You really are a charming
couple — Fd be glad to use you in
my campaign.”

8i

Wyn gave him the cold shoulder,
the left one. She turned rudely into
the doorway and stared intently at
the keyhole of the locked door.

“That’s just the difference in our
methods, Mackenzie,” said Gerry
blandly. “I wouldn’t use you in my
campaign. Your methods may be
successful, but I wouldn’t care to
use some of them.”

Mackenzie sighed. “And for that
reason, among others. I’ll win,” he
said. “Aren’t you people even
trying?”

He sniffed, bowed sardonically at
Wyn, who was still turned away
from him and couldn’t even see the
gesture, and strode across and into
the Savoy.

Wyn whirled indignantly. “See
that!” she exclaimed. “0«r ball —
and we’re not there — and he is!”

Gerry grinned. “Then let’s run
for it, rain or no rain.”

“No, I can’t. My dress — ”

“Then I’ll run for it and send
out someone with an umbrella or
something.”

It wasn’t necessary. The rain halted
momentarily, switching from one
reservoir to another, and without
wasting time in talk, knowing how
brief the respite was going to be,
Wyn and Gerry dashed across the
rain- washed street. Out of breath
but triumphant, they reached the
shelter of the canopy just before the
downpour resumed where it left off.

“We’ll get wet on the way back,”
Gerry warned.

“\^at does the way matter?”

92

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

asked Wyn scornfully. “The ob-
tuseness of men!”

In the foyer they looked at the
bills while they got their breath
back. Some simply said “AMABI”
Others showed a couple dancing,
with the legend “Grand AMAB
Ball.” Still others, for those who
would take the time to read all
about it, had two columns of big
type presenting the sales talk. None
of the men and women dashing in
out of the rain had time, apparently.
Or perhaps they knew all alwut it.

Anyway, there were plenty of
people dashing in. “The rain’s done
us a good turn, honey,” said Gerry
jubilantly. “It stopped in time to
drive them out, and once they were
out, they carried on. There’s going
to be a big crowd.”

But Wyn had disappeared into
the ladies’ room. She was interested
enough in the AMAB campaign,
even excited about it sometimes,
and she was certainly loyal. How-
ever, at the moment she was a girl
at a dance with the man she loved.
And if he happened to be her
husband too, so much the better —
he would be with her after the
dance as well. AMAB could wait
for a few hours.

Gerry checked his raincoat at the
men’s cloakroom. “How’s it going,
Emily.?” he asked the girl in charge
there.

Emily was a showpiece, selected
for looks alone. She looked good
enough to eat, and Gerry found him-
self playing with the bizarre thought

that by the Galactic Code it wouldn’t
be a crime to eat her, because she
wasn’t an intelligent creature.

“Oh, we’re doing fine, Mr.
Young,” she said brightly.

“How many are in already.?”

But Emily could only count to
ten, and so wasn’t much help. Gerry
left her and went to look for Wyn.

He didn’t have to wait for her.
She couldn’t have done more than
take off her coat and make a few
quick passes at her hair and dress.
She came out and joined him as if
their watches had been synchronized.

“Yes, honey,” he said contentedly,
just looking at her. “You’ve still got
it.”

She knew she still had it, but she
glowed because he still wanted to
say it. And that improved the effect.

She wore a rose-pink net dress
that covered her from throat to mid-
calf, with long loose sleeves. The net
alone being something less than
adequate, red built-in accessories
here and there reinforced the net in
small but strategic areas.

And Gerry was delighted to find
that though in any beauty contest
Emily would be placed first and
Wyn second, and though he had
been married to Wyn for four years,
he couldn’t think of a single thing
he’d rather do with Emily than
with Wyn.

They went in together and straight
on to the floor. Though Gerry had
organized the dance, he was suf-
ficiently interested in Wyn to wait
till after the first waltz before he

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

even looked to see hoW many people
were there.

“Not bad,” he murmured, “con-
sidering it*s so early. It’s not funds
we want, Wyn, it’s support. We
want a lot of people here, not for
the cash they bring in but to make
this a success. We need a few suc-
cesses. We should win, but — ”

“Please, Gerry, not tonight,”
Wyn pleaded. “Tonight I’m out
with a man, not a political cam-
paign.”

“You’re not out with a political
campaign, honey,” said Gerry quietly.
“But look at those two.”

Wyn looked. Elis Masto and
Adam Bentley were dancing to-
gether. They were clinging to each
other passionately, almost desper-
ately, as if at any moment someone
or something would come and tear
them apart. One couldn’t see^ but
one could sense shadows behind them.

“They’re always out with a po-
litical campaign,” Gerry murmured.
“If the Realists win, they . . . And
look at those two.”

Moyra Molin and Bob Drake
were tenderer, less desperate. Bob
was Gerry’s cousin. Moyra and Bob
were intelligent people, and knew
what was going on in the galaxy.
Long ago they had faced the fact
that since Moyra had been born on
Greensing and Bob on Westover
there were going to be difficulties
in their life together. But they were
going to face them together, rather
than remove them by going sepa-
rate ways.

83

“Suppose you and I belonged to
different planets, honey Gerry
said, rubbing his cheek against Wyn’s
hair.

“I know — but we don’t, and
tonight I want to enjoy myself.
I’ve got a new dress. I’m with my
favorite man, and — ugh!”

She grunted disgustedly as she
saw Mackenzie standing in the
shadows at the back of the ballroom,
under the balcony. He was alone, of
course. Mackenzie was generally
alone.

“He’s got his nerve,” Wyn mut-
tered. “Coming to our dance, as
if he — ”

“We were rude to him outside,”
said Gerry contritely. “Let’s go and
talk to him. Politely this time.”

Wyn followed him reluctantly.
She was an honest, open soul. If
she didn’t Uke someone, she hated
being civil to him. Mackenzie was
one of the few people she really
disliked. “He brings out the worst
in me, that man,” she had said —
often. And Gerry never denied it.
The only time Wyn became a shrew
was when she talked to or about
Mackenzie. She wasn’t so much for
AMAB as against Mackenzie.

Gerry strode towards Mackenzie,
pulling Wyn behind him. Mac-
kenzie saw them and waited im-
passively.

John Mackenzie was a once-seen-
never-forgotten type. He was like
nothing which had ever happened
before. The faintly bluish tinge of
his skin suggested Rinan. His height

84

and gait made one think of Scarisac,
but the shape of his head was pure
Greensing. His accent was almost
sterile, with only traces of Earth
and, later, Eastover. Gerry had
puzzled over his origin for some
time before hearing Mackenzie was
from Metapur, of Terran parents.
It fitted — it was the only thing
that did.

Even apart from the question of
his origin, his appearance was star-
tling. His nose was tiny, the one
weak feature in a strong face. A big
nose would have balanced his fea-
tures, might have made them
congruous if not pleasing. His chin
was heavy, his mouth wide and full
— the mouth of a man with strong
sympathies, or so one would have
thought if it weren’t so often pulled
into a hard, straight line. His eyes,
failing the nose, might have brought
unity to his face; but they did and
told precisely nothing. They were
just eyes, as characterless as glass.

“Glad to see you here, Mr. Mac-
kenzie,” Gerry said aflfably.“I didn’t
know you danced.”

“On the contrary,” said Mac-
kenzie bluntly, “not being without
some element of intelligence, you
know very well I don’t.”

“A typical Mackenzieism,” said
Gerry brightly. “It gives nothing
away and puts the onus right back
on the enemy. Also it assumes what
is not so. How could I know you
don’t dance? You could be an ex-
ballet dancer for all I know.”

“You know I have no social

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

graces. So unlike you and your
charming wife.” He bowed to Wyn.
It was not ironic. It was obviously
not ironic. “I can’t fight this cam-
paign on my own personal charm.”

“Please don’t talk about that,”
said Wyn impatiently. “People are
supposed to be here to enjoy them-
selves.”

“Not to demonstrate their con-
viction that All Men Are Brothers?”
inquired Mackenzie, with mock
surprise.

“Not just now. There’s a time
and place for everything.”

“That attitude is going to be very
useful to me,” said Mackenzie drily.

“Oh, come on, Gerry,” exclaimed
Wyn, tugging at his arm. They
swept back to the dance-floor.

“You were rude again,” said Gerry
reproachfully.

“He’s a cheat, a schemer and a
swindler,” Wyn retorted hotly.

“Steady on!” Gerry murmured,
laughing. “I grant you he Wouldn’t
care much how he got his results,
but he’s sincere enough. Know why
you don’t like him, Wyn?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

“You don’t like him because he
doesn’t find you attractive.”

“I like that!” said Wyn, outraged,
stopping dancing.

“No, you don’t like that. Neither
does any girl with normal feminine
impulses. He pays you compliments,
but he doesn’t mean them, and you
know he doesn’t mean them.” Gerry
paused, then added shrewdly: “When
you find a man some women dislike.

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

he may be a wolf. But when you
find a man all women dislike, you
know he must be the exact opposite.”

“That’s a rather disgusting idea,”
Wyn exclaimed.

“Not at all.” But he didn’t con-
tinue the discussion. Gerry always
went by the principle that it took
two to make a quarrel, and refused
to be one of them. He changed the
subject. “Say, I wonder what Mac-
kenzie wants with those two?”

Wyn turned to look. “Elis and
Adam! You’d never expect to see
him talking to a couple like them.
I’d have thought — ”

“One would, wouldn’t one?”
Gerry agreed. “No, look, Mackenzie’s
leaving. He was probably just pass-
ing the time of day.”

“When,” asked Wyn venomously,
“did you ever know Mackenzie to
be just passing the time of day?”

Gerry didn’t follow that up either.

For the rest of the evening they
were just an ordinary young couple
at a dance, enjoying themselves.
There were no campaign speeches.
Gerry was relying more on people’s
good sense than on any impassioned
appeal.

He was too easy-going and he
knew it. However, when he had been
appointed to organize the AMAB
campaign on Eastover, and particu-
larly in Jordan, the people concerned
had known what he was like. So he
didn’t try to transform himself into
another Mackenzie. He continued
to be Gerry Young, sincere but not
fanatic, competent without the high

85

efficiency of some people, on the job
not twenty-four hours a day but
something like six, a young man
who hoped his party was going to
be successful but who wasn’t going
to extraordinary lengths to ensure
it.

He was fighting for people like
his cousin Bob, for a principle, for
an ideal. He wasn’t concerned, he
wasn’t biased. He was honest, sensi-
ble, and incapable of excess, particu-
larly emotional excess.

That was just the trouble.

Ill

As he waited in an all-night cafe,
sipping coffee, Mackenzie stared out
silently at the dreary, dark, drenched
square outside.

Out there, in the rain, the posters
fought a silent, bloodless, but des-
perate battle. Wherever a Realist
bill penetrated, there was an AMAB
bill to jump on its back. Where an
AMAB legend seemed to have found
sanctuary on a solitary, lonely bill-
board, a Realist counterblast sprang
from the shadows and clawed at its
throat.

There is only one human race! a
huge AMAB bill proclaimed.

Beside it was a Realist poster
which screamed: YOU ARE A
CRIMINAL and continued in smaller
type . . . if you subject your children
to lifelong unhappiness.

Another AMAB bill simply stated
AMAB’s title theme: All men are
brothers.

A Realist bill retorted cryptically,

86

shrewdly: Brother but not brothers-
in-law.

And that was the core of the
matter.

There were a lot of other so-called
brotherhood issues coming, questions
to be settled about the interrelations
of the many human settlements and
civilizations in the galaxy, but they
were only now coming and the in-
termarriage problem was come.

The AMAB party stood for free
marriage between members of any
races, and the Reahsts opposed it.
That was the question of the mo-
ment. That was the question on
which every person in the galaxy
who was sane and twenty-one or
over was entitled to vote. That was
the campaign which was being fought
out on every colonized world.

There was, of course, much to be
said on both sides. Otherwise the
conflict couldn’t have been so vast
and even. Almost on the eve of the
ballot no one knew how it would go.

The AMAB point of view was
that all the races, different though
they might be now, had come from
Earth. That there was still only one
human race. That intermarriage
would always be possible, and should
never be forbidden. That there
should be no prejudice, no racial
distinction, no color bar. That differ-
ence and segregation breed dissen-
sion, and people should simply be
regarded as people, whatever their
color, shape, race or origin.

The Realists, in effect, said this
was all very well, but not realistic.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Racial difference was a fact, and
it was no use pretending it didn’t
exist. That went for prejudice and
distinction and color bars too. By
all means regard all men as brothers,
the Realists said, but don’t marry a
girl of a different race, and don’t let
your sister marry a man of a different
color. The Realists wanted an elev-
enth commandment. They wanted
marriage restricted by law to
members of the same race.

It was after that that the compli-
cations emerged, the thorny prob-
lems, the special cases, the inter-
minable arguments. Did the Realists,
the AMABs demanded, want to
partition the galaxy, stultify trade
and other intercourse.? What un-
married woman would go to a world
none of whose men she could possibly
marry? What man would accept a
job on a world whose girls he was
supposed to treat with civility, no
less and no more? And how did
Earth, the origin of all the races,
stand — was new colonization to
stop?

The Realists retorted that they
were concerned with the situation
as it was, not as it had been five
hundred years before, or as it would
be five hundred years later. In five
hundred years’ time people might
be ready for AMAB ideas, in which
case AMAB ideas would prevail.
Meantime, marriage between clearly
different races, like those of Scarisac
and Rinan, say, should be forbidden.
On the obviously difficult question
of Earth, the Realists were divided.

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

Some recognized no difference; others
said that Earth, the mother world,
would always be in a special position
and that no prohibition should apply
between Earth and any other world.

Mackenzie frowned slightly as
his gaze passed from bill to bill. A
bill rarely made anything but an
emotional appeal, and it was all too
clear that the AMAB bills, the
AMAB ideas generally, made a
stronger emotional appeal than the
Realists’ argument. The Realists had
to discuss, to propound, to argue.
Mackenzie, an experienced, compe-
tent politician, very much preferred
not to argue. He knew that a fiery
phrase might be worth more than
a hundred arguments.

All men are brothers^ for example.
His party, the ReaUsts, had to retort
with BrotherSy but not brothers-in-
law, The one was an appeal to the
emotions, the other an appeal to
the reason. Mackenzie, a first-class
propagandist, didn’t have to ponder
over which appeal he’d rather make,
if he had the choice.

Mackenzie looked up as steps
sounded behind him. “Have some
coffee,” he invited.

He waited for his two guests to
sit down, to commit themselves. At
the moment they could still say no,
and make it clear that they had
come only to say no quite definitely,
so that he wouldn’t bother them
again. But after the passage of a
few more seconds it would be too
late for that.

When it was too late, when they

87

were settled and drinking coffee, he
said gently: “You came here —
you must be interested in my propo-
sition. Perhaps you’ll tell me a little
more about yourselves before we go
any further.”

Ehs and Adam glanced at each
other. Their glance told Mackenzie
almost all he really wanted to know
— that they were very much in
love, that they were afraid of him,
that they were desperate for money
and that they had already decided
to agree to almost anything.

Elis couldn’t have been more
than nineteen. Her amber eyes, wasp
waist and the obvious power of her
legs proclaimed her instantly a
Midinan. On paper the differences
would barely exist — girls other than
Midinans had amber eyes, waists
seventeen inches less than their hips,
and legs of the same dimensions and
appearance as EUs’s. But the overall
impression was unmistakable. Any-
one who had had anything to do
with Midina would identify her at
a glance.

Adam was equally obviously a
Faquistan. He had the characteristic
sallowness yet smoothness of skin,
the powerful, jerky walk, the hunched
shoulders and the over-large feet of
most Faquistans.

“What do you want to know, Mr.
Mackenzie?” asked Elis. She was
trying to keep herself under rigid
control, but she couldn’t help licking
her lips nervously.

“Can you act?” asked Mackenzie.
“Both of you?”

88

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“We’ve done most things. Once
we were part of a cabaret act.”

“You want to get married. Why
aren’t you married already?”

Silence. Elis and Adam exchanged
glances again.

“Is it by any chance because one
of you is wanted by the police, and
you’re afraid — ”

“No,” said Elis sharply. She was
clearly the spokesman for both of
them. “If you must know, it’s be-
cause we can’t afford to get married.
That’s all. We want money, we need
money, but we aren’t criminals and
there’s nothing you can use to black-
mail us.”

“There’s no question of black-
mail,” Mackenzie protested.

“No, but I expect you’d be glad
to know something about us that
would give you a hold over us. Well,
there isn’t anything.”

“So much the better,” said Mac-
kenzie airily. “Criminals would be
no use to me. Another thing:
naturally you’re AMAB supporters?”

Elis hesitated, then nodded.

“Yet you know I want to break
AMAB — and you’re still listening?”

Another resolute nod.

“How does that make sense?”
Mackenzie demanded.

“We hope AMAB wins. What
happens here, on one of scores of
worlds, won’t affect the issue any-
way.”

She tried to stare defiantly at
him, but her gaze dropped before
Mackenzie’s showed the slightest
sign of doing so.

“If we do what you want,” she
murmured, more to Adam and her-
self than to Mackenzie, “maybe it
won’t have the effect you want.
And even if it does, if a little thing
like that could make all the differ-
ence . . . But it caiit, and we need
the money.”

Mackenzie nodded. He was pre-
pared to accept that. Elis was ra-
tionalizing, as people so often did
when something they "wanted was
offered at the cost of something
which they didn’t want but which
might never happen. People would
sell their heads if the price was
big enough and they were assured
by someone with a letter or two
after his name that they could live
without a head.

Elis and Adam were refusing to
believe that anything they might
do could have any effect on the
big issue. They thought they would
be able to have their cake and eat it.

They might, of course, be right.
Mackenzie didn’t think so. Mac-
kenzie rarely did anything which
wasn’t worth while. He didn’t think
he would be handing over a biggish
sum of Realist funds for nothing.

When Mackenzie had gone, Elis
and Adam lingered rather miserably
in the caf6.

“He knew exactly what to offer,”
said Adam bitterly. “Not too httle,
just enough to make us . . . Wc
couldn’t say no to that, Elis, could
we?”

“/ couldn’t,” Elis admitted. “It’s

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

89

nothing to the Realist party, but
it’ll get us out of all our difficulties,
clear us here and give us a start
somewhere else ... We should have
said no just the same.”

“I don’t know,” Adam temporized*
“It’s not as if it’s really going to
matter — ”

“Maybe not, but suppose every-
body said that?” said Elis, beginning
to see new objections now that it
was too late. “Everybody every-
where, not just here in Jordan. He
made us promise not to get married
now — said it would spoil the whole
thing if we were married. Well,
suppose a law was passed that stopped
us ever getting married?”

Adam laughed abruptly. “Hell,
that needn’t worry us. We’ll get
married immediately we get our
hands on the money. And then no
law can touch us. All I’m worried
about is — this thing we’re to do.
Will we be able to go through with
it?”

“I will,” Elis declared. “It’s you
I’m worried about — though you’ve
got the easy part.”

“Easy!” Adam exclaimed.

“How would you like what’s going
to happen to me?”

“It’s going to be worse for me.”

“Don’t let’s argue, darling. We
both have to go through with it
now. We’ve promised. And immedi-
ately afterwards, we’ll go away where
it’s warm and sunny.”

“And get married,” said Adam.

“Before the ballot,” Elis added.
“Just in case.”

“You don’t really think — ”

“It’s not a question of thinking
anything. We want to get married
as soon as we can anyway — don’t
we?”

There was a certain desperate
hunger in their embrace — but a
singular absence of rapture. There
were shadows behind them. There
would always be shadows behind
them, wherever they went.

And they would never realize
that they put the shadows there
themselves, by being the kind of
people they were.

IV

Gerry and Wyn saw the whole
performance, as it happened.

They hardly ever went to night
clubs, but Wyn, her appetite for soft
lights and sweet music whetted by
the AMAB dance, insisted on an-
other evening out the next night,
after a day of AMAB meetings and
rallies. So when Elis, Adam and a
few others earned their money, as-
sisted by some amateurs who didn’t
know there were any professionals
involved, Gerry and Wyn happened
to be around to see them do it.

Jordan was by no means the hot
spot of Eastover. On the contrary
it was regarded as a sober, respectable
city, a sort of weathercock for the
whole planet. If Jordan passed a
thing, no other city in the world was
likely to object to it. Other citi^
gained the reputation of being fast
or daring or progressive by doing
things that Jordan wouldn’t do.

90

Jordan’s night clubs, the Spacedive
included, were suave and sophisti-
cated without being feverish. Anyone
too obviously drunk was politely
ejected. The cabaret girls never
wore too much or too httle. The
sketches and songs were suggestive
in only a subtle, well-bred way. The
only^ gambling was strictly legal,
open and regularly inspected.

“May I talk about AMAB,
honey?” Gerry asked whimsically
as they sipped Curasao.

Wyn grinned. “Sure, if you want
to. Last night was a special occasion.
I wanted you to myself, without
AMAB sticking its oar in.”

“You look even better than you
did last night.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking
for,” Wyn murmured, “but I won’t
complain now I’ve got it. Now you
can say anything you hke about
AMAB, and I’ll agree with every
word.”

Gerry smiled, then frowned as his
thoughts passed from Wyn to the
campaign. “Mackenzie’s too quiet,”
he said. “He’s going to do something,
naturally, and I’d be quite happy if
I only knew what it was. But
I don’t — which means there’ll be
no counter-measures.”

“Is there really anything to worry
about, Gerry?” asked Wyn. “I mean,
is there any chance of the Realists
getting anywhere?”

“They might. Especially here on
Eastover, with Mackenzie directing
operations.”

“But even if the ballot is against

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

us, can they possibly pass a law
against mixed marriages?”

“Oh yes — and they will. A sort
of eleventh commandment. Back
on Earth, the Realists are in the
majority. They need only a vote of
confidence to go ahead with their
program. If the universal ballot’s
in the Realists’ favor a new law is
automatic, and there won’t be any
delay about putting it into oper-
ation.”

Wyn made an impatient gesture
with her hand, as if she were tired
of it and wanted to throw it away.
She had forgotten that she was going
to agree with every word. “You
can’t just forbid mixed marriages
hke that.”

“Oh yes you can. All the Realists
need is a decisive majority, and
you’ll see whether mixed marriages
can be forbidden or not.”

“But what about all the mixed
marriages there are already?”

“They won’t be annulled, of
course,” said Gerry, not entirely
happily. “But it’s not going to .be
very nice for mixed couples. They’ll
be pointed out, laughed at, made
the butt for anything the local
humorist thinks is funny.”

Wyn shook her head definitely.
“People aren’t as bad as that,” she
said. “People are pretty nice, really.”

“Taken all over, maybe. But it
takes only one person to make a
nasty scene.”

Wyn couldn’t see it. “Look, there’s
Bob and Moyra,” she said. She
nodded at a table on the floor of

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

the club, a little lower than the
balcony where their own table was.
Catching her glance, Moyra waved
back. So did Bob.

“Take Moyra and Bob,” said
Wyn. “Moyra was born on Greensing
and Bob was born here. They’re
nice people. When they’re warned,
do you really think anyone would
. . . would . . .”

“Yes,” said Gerry quietly. “Sup-
pose Moyra and Bob get married —
and the Realists win, and pass their
law against mixed marriage. You
want to know what’s going to happen
to Moyra and Bob?”

He stared down at his cousin and
Moyra, frowning. “I’ve thought
about this a lot,” he said. “I’ve
talked with Bob about it too, and
he agrees with me. He knows what
might happen, but . . .”

He shook his head. “Suppose there
can’t be any more mixed marriage.
All the mixed couples who are
married already will become oddities
— people will whisper and stare
whenever Bob and Moyra appear
anywhere — ”

“I know,” Wyn exclaimed. “That
always happens when people are . . .
different in any way. But what harm
can that do them?”

Gerry sighed. “Suppose they go
to a dance together. There will be
a big group, men and girls, who
have drunk too much. There always
is. Somebody in this group will see
Bob and Moyra and get a great idea.
He’ll go round behind Bob and
Moyra, clowning, and people will

9 ^

laugh. Even those who don’t laugh
won’t want to interfere. Encouraged,
the funny man will go further and
further with his clowning, and every-
one will be in stitches. Moyra and
Bob will ignore him as long as they
can. He’ll drop a coin down the
front of Moyra’s dress, and everyone
will cheer when it tinkles on the
floor. Great fun. He’ll tap Bob on
the shoulder, and Bob still won’t do
anything. The funny man will stand
on Moyra’s dress and it’ll tear, and
there’ll be another cheer, louder
this time. After that there’s bound
to be a fight. Bob and Moyra, being
sensible people, still won’t start it,
They’ll make their way quietly off
the floor to go home. But someone

— probably a girl — will snatch at
Moyra’s torn dress, and either Bob
will hit somebody or somebody will
hit Bob. It won’t matter which. And
Bob and Moyra will be thrown out

— always. Never the funny man
and his friends.”

“But,” Wyn objected, “Bob and
Moyra don’t have to — ”

“It won’t make any difference
what Bob and Moyra do. They’ll be
made to retaliate sooner or later.”

“They’ll Just have to keep away
from dances, then, and places where
people may do that sort of thing.”

Gerry shook his head again. “It
won’t matter where they go — if
this law is passed. Suppose they’re
in a crowd. They’ll be jostled apart

— with almost friendly good humpr,
at first. They’ll try to get together
again, and as they try to drive a

92

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

way through, people will get annoyed
at them. They’ll be roughed up a
bit, just to keep them in their place.
Bob will be tripped and get his hand
trodden on, and Moyra will get a
juicy tomato pushed down her
back — ”

“It’s silly talking like this,” said
Wyn impatiently. “We’re just im-
agining what might happen if some-
thing else happens — ”

“Oh, sure,” said Gerry, grinning
wryly. “But everything that ever
happens was once something that
might happen if something else — ”

There was a loud crash, and a
series of smaller crashes. The band
faltered for an instant, then, in the
way of all night club bands, blared
out louder than ever in an effort to
cover up the confusion.

Gerry and Wyn looked across at
the balcony opposite. Everyone else
was staring in the same direction. A
table had crashed over with all its
spoons, knives, forks, plates and
flowers, which were spread in an
unholy mess on the floor.

“Adam Bentley — and Elis!” Wyn
exclaimed.

Adam and Elis were facing each
other furiously across the overturned
table. Elis was screaming something
unintelligible. Abruptly she bent
down, swept a bottle from the
debris on the floor and in the same
movement sent it flying at Adam’s
head. Adam dodged, and the bottle,
dropping on a table-top on the
lower level, smashed so violently
that the band stopped playing.

Adam lunged across the wreckage
at Elis and deliberately ripped her
gown. Elis screamed, stooped again
and hurled another bottle at him.
She couldn’t miss again at that
range, k hit his head, ricocheted
and smashed on the floor below.

Elis was grotesque, half over-
dressed, half naked, and not at-
tractively half naked. She looked
like a rather low-class prostitute.

It wasn’t surprising that someone
said so. But perhaps the opinion
needn’t have been expressed so
loudly, with so much obscenity and
profanity, or with the generalization
about dirty another adjective Midi-
nans which accompanied it.

Someone else shouted that any
Midinan was worth fifty dirty same
adjective Faquistans.

To help things on, Adam gave
Elis a back-handed swipe that sent
her reeling back against the balcony
rail, shrieking shrilly.

“Mackenzie!” Gerry exclaimed.
It was suddenly very obvious that
this was an act, and that Mackenzie
was at the back of it. This wasn’t
like Adam. It wasn’t like Elis. As
they shrieked and fought and clawed
each other they were shockingly
repulsive — because the whole scene
had been planned to be as repulsive
as possible.

But by this time not everybody
was watching Adam and Elis. The
disturbance was spreading. A scuffle
had started on the floor, and a
shouted quarrel was being carried
on from the two balconies. Bob

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

Drake jumped as a thrown glass hit
him in the back.

Gerry jumped to his feet. “Don’t
be fools!” he shouted. “Don’t you
see this is a staged demonstration,
and anyone who joins in is simply
playing into the hands of — ”

He was drowned by a roar as
someone threw a bowl of hot soup
over Moyra’s dress and she jumped
up, screaming. Moyra and Bob were
in a conspicuous spot, and they were
conspicuously a mixed couple. Seeing
them involved in a disturbance,
people wanted to take Moyra’s part
or Bob’s, or the part of both of them
against agitators, or the part of the
agitators against them.

A burly man bored in at Bob,
head down, and Bob coolly and
efficiently kneed him in the face.
He staggered back, his flailing arms
brushing at least a dozen people.

Thereafter it wasn’t clear who
were the paid mischief-makers, who
were trying to restore order, and
who had been roused to feelings of
racial hate by what had happened
already.

Somebody knocked Adam uncon-
scious, and by that time nobody
noticed, or cared, that Elis immedi-
ately stopped shrieking and bent
“ anxiously over him. Moyra and
Bob, inoffensive as they were, be-
came the focal point of the riot.
What Gerry had been saying came
true almost before he had finished
saying it. However, he hadn’t been
quite right. He and Wyn, helpless,
saw that very few people were trying

93

to attack either Moyra or Bob;
everyone wanted to defend one or
other of them. The effect was much
the same.

A man who reached toward
Moyra, with what purpose it was
never known, was kidney-punched
and sent flying along the polished
floor. A girl spat at Bob and was
promptly attacked by two other
women who tore her hair and
scratched her face and shoulders.

No guns were produced and few
bottles were used. There was no
panic and no blood lust. But heads
were broken, faces scratched, clothes
torn and legs kicked. Women were
mishandled merely under cover of
the general disorder.

Even Gerry and Wyn found them-
selves fighting. Gerry felt bound to
strike down a man who attacked a
completely unoffending couple at
the next table, though he realized
perfectly well that even that was
likely to involve him and Wyn in
trouble. It did. For the next few
minutes it was all he could do to
keep Wyn safe. Wyn was healthy
enough, but neither strong nor
tough.

At the end of that time the
police arrived. Then things gradu-
ally sorted themselves out.

Two men had broken arms, three
had crushed ribs, there were half a
dozen cases of concussion, and dozens
of people had cuts and bruises. There
was considerable damage to the club
and to the general appearance of
the patrons.

94

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

But the Spacedive didn’t wish
to make any charges. Adam, Elis
and the other early trouble-makers
had all prudently disappeared. The
police, unwilling to spoil a good
record, weren’t keen on making any
arrests if they could be avoided.
They could. What most people
wanted was to get home quietly,
without any further trouble. Any
who had other ideas changed them
when they found the police any-
thing but encouraging.

One couple were stubborn longer
than everyone else — Moyra and
Bob. It wasn’t unnatural, since Bob
finished with his shirt torn from his
back, his face scratched, his ribs
"bruised and one ankle badly swollen,
and Moyra was left crying more
from shock than injury, her clothes
in worse state than Elis’s had been.
They were entitled to make trouble,
and had no intention of letting the
matter drop.

But they withdrew their protests
after a few words from Gerry Young.

Gerry hadn’t anticipated Mac-
kenzie’s next move, but obviously
this was it, and equally obviously
there was nothing AMAB could do
about it. If he and Wyn said they
had seen Mackenzie with Elis and
Adam, Mackenzie could either deny
it completely or admit it and point
out reasonably that that was no
proof that there had been any ar-
rangement between them. No, Mac-
kenzie would have covered his tracks.

And Moyra and Bob, by lodging
official complaints, would only be

playing into Mackenzie’s hands. The
more publicity the affair got, the
better Mackenzie would be pleased.

“Mackenzie’s won that round,”
Gerry told Wyn afterwards, “and
all we can do is make sure we win
the next.”

“How has he won it?” asked Wyn
indignantly.

“See the paper tomorrow.”

“Well, even if he has,” Wyn
declared warmly, “I don’t think
Mackenzie would give in as easily
as you seem to be doing, Gerry.
He’d never admit he’d lost a round.”

“No. He’d fight longer, harder
and much dirtier than I would.”

Wyn flushed. “I don’t want you
to fight dirty. I don’t want you to
be like Mackenzie. But I don’t want
you to be beaten by that man,
Gerry.”

Gerry grinned. Gerry’s trouble
was that he could always see the
other man’s point of view.

‘T think Mackenzie’s sincere
enough,” he said. “He may not be-
lieve particularly in this cause, but
he believes in the Realist Party, and
it’s them we’re opposing in this.
And to Mackenzie the end always
justifies the means.”

“You mean,” said Wyn incredu-
lously, “you think he was right to
fix tonight’s affair?”

“Oh no,” said Gerry placidly.
“All I mean is, this doesn’t tell me
anything new about Mackenzie. I
knew already he’d do anything to
get the result he wanted.”

The phone rang. Gerry picked ft

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

up. Wyn saw his face stifFen.“Moyra?
Again? The filthy swine! As if it
wasn’t enough to . . . She’s not
dangerously hurt, I hope? Well,
that’s something. You couldn’t iden-
tify any of the men?”

A long pause. Then: “No, I don’t
believe they could have been paid
thugs. Just drunks, inflamed by
what happened earlier. That’s the
worst of demonstrations, they get
out of control.”

Another long pause. Then Gerry
said doubtfully: “I can appreciate
that you want to get back at them
any way you can. Bob, and AMAB
can certainly use some help. Sure,
come along first thing tomorrow,
and if the picture’s all you say . . .”

When he hung up, Wyn asked
quickly: “What’s happened to
Moyra?”

Gerry’s brow, which had cleared,
darkened again. “Three toughs set
on Bob and Moyra as he was taking
her home,” he said. “Bob wasn’t
hurt much, but Moyra got a bang
on the head and two broken ribs.
When she was down they kicked
her and injured her internally —
she’s in the hospital now.”

Wyn went white with fury. “I
suppose you’ll still say there’s no
reason to get mad at Mackenzie?”

“I’m pretty sure Mackenzie had
nothing to do with this. He set
something off, that’s all.”

“I should say he did set some-
thing off!” Wyn retorted passion-
ately. “He sets the mob on Moyra
and Bob, and they get beaten up —

95

that makes him responsible, doesn’t
it, whether he actually planned this
attack or not? What’s the difference?”

He shrugged.

Gerry started to say something,
but Wyn was in full cry now.
“We’ve got to win, Gerry! At first
I didn’t care, but we can’t let this
sort of bestiality beat us. I didn’t
believe what you were saying earlier
tonight, but now I do. Think of
it — Moyra and Bob having a quiet
night out, not harming anyl^y.
And just because Mackenzie wants
some political success or other, Moyra
and Bob are victimized, attacked^
humiliated in front of scores of
people. That’s bad enough, but the
next thing we hear is that Moyra ’s
in hospital, beaten up by three
sadists who might have killed her — ”

Wyn was nearly hysterical.

“Don’t get all worked up, honey,”
said Gerry quietly. “I know it’s
bad. I’m not congratulating Mac-
kenzie on his part in it either. All
I’m saying is that this is the sort of
thing we’ve been fighting all along.
The situation hasn’t changed.”

“We’ve got to get a huge majority
in this poll, for the sake of Bob and
Moyra,” Wyn insisted.

“Yes — for the sake of Bob and
Moyra,” agreed Gerry. But he
wasn’t thinking along quite the
same lines as his wife. He had a
longer-term view.

If there wasn’t a huge majority
for AMAB, what had just happened
to Moyra and Bob would be liable
to happen any time — because it

96

would be almost sanctioned by public
opinion and the law.

V

Gerry was up first the next morn-
ing. He brought in the papers and
dumped them on the bed.

Wyn wailed: “You don’t love me
any more!”

“Not just now,” said Gerry grimly.
“IVe got too much on my mind.
Look at those.”

Ten minutes later she said: “I
don’t want to seem dumb, Gerry,
but I still don’t see what you mean,
or what you meant last night when
you said the papers would show how
Mackenzie had won. They make a
lot of the riot last night, but . . .”

“That’s it,” said Gerry. “Honey,
you were there, and the reports are
fair enough. That’s why you don’t
quite see the significance, perhaps.
But if you hadn’t been there and
didn’t know Mackenzie was behind
this, how would it look? Race dis-
sension behind night-club fracas.
Mixed couple fight, kindle race riot.
Only a spark needed to inflame
feelings on AMAB issue. Another
mixed couple attacked on way home
— girl in the hospital.

“Doesn’t look as if all men really
are brothers, does it?”

“I see . . .” said Wyn. “And
there’s more than that. Elis and
Adam looked really disgusting —
as they were meant to, of course.
You felt people of different races
shouldn’t be allowed to get married,
just looking at them fighting.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Gerry nodded soberly. “You’ll
notice that that point isn’t missed
in the papers. The description makes
it clear that it wasn’t a man and
woman squabbling, but a Midinan
and a Faquistan. I’m not saying the
papers are biased, though some of
them are, the Realist ones. I must
hand it to Mackenzie — the whole
tone of the incident was carefully
selected and carried through to
make it crystal clear that the all-
men-are-brothers idea is only skin
deep and that if you scratch u& we’re
all ready to go for any member of
another race at the drop of a hat.”

“What a heel the man is,” Wyn
murmured venomously. “What a
filthy way to win votes!”

Gerry shrugged. That angle was
less important to him than it was
to Wyn. “Mackenzie isn’t much
worse than any criminal lawyer,”
he remarked, “who defends his client
by suppression of the truth, down-
right lying and slinging mud at
everybody else in the case, though
he knows his client’s guilty as hell.
What’s more important: how do
we get back the ground we’ve lost?”

He was really putting the question
seriously to Wyn, for though no one
would accuse her of being a great
thinker or a smart politician or a
competent psychologist, she did have
the gift of seeing the right course of
action sometimes without knowing
how she reached it. She didn’t like
it to be called feminine intuition,
but that was what it was.

“Well, what was this about Bob

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

Drake coming round first thing this
morning? And about a picture?”

Gerry looked at her thoughtfully.
“Think there’s something in that,
do you? I didn’t. Bob wants us to
launch a one-picture campaign. He’s
got a picture Moyra posed for, and
he thinks we should use it to repre-
sent the whole AMAB idea —
Moyra, from Greensing, as a symbol
of attractive alien womanhood — ”

Wyn gave a cry of delight. “That’s
it, Gerry ! Moyra in the picture —
fiancee of artist — lying injured in
the hospital — beaten up by thugs,
obviously Realists. That’s great
propaganda. When you work up the
story — ”

“I see what you mean,” said
Gerry, with sober interest, “but how
do we know Bob’s picture is going
to be suitable?”

“Oh, it will be,” said Wyn im-
patiently, brushing that aside. “This
is what you want, Gerry! Tell the
story of Bob and Moyra — you
know more about them than I do —
how they love each other, how
they’re going to get married, how
they were attacked last night. Tie
in the picture, how it was painted,
how Bob suggested using it . . .
Oh, you can do this sort of thing
far better than I can.”

“Once you’ve suggested it, yes.”
Gerry still wasn’t too sure. Well,
you’ve been right before, honey,
when I thought there wasn’t a
chance of it. I hope you’re right
again. Wonder what Bob’s picture
looks like?”

97

They didn’t have long to wait.
Wyn was still thinking of getting up
— she spent most of the morning
thinking of getting up, and not
doing it — when Bob arrived. Wyn
got out of bed at last, slipped into
a negligee and came through to the
lounge after Gerry.

Hand on the door, Gerry paused.
“Is that all you’re going to put on?”
he inquired.

“Yes, why?”

“Oh, I just thought it was hardly
fair with Bob’s girl in hospital,”
Gerry murmured.

Wyn put out her tongue at him.

Bob, however, paid no particular
attention to Wyn. He was no dis-
tracted lover. His manner was brisk
and businesslike, despite the bandage
on his head. He was more like a
salesman than an artist.

“First of all,” he said, “you want
to see this picture I was telling you
about. I know you don’t think much
of this scheme, Gerry, but — ”

“But I do,” said Wyn. “Let’s see
it.”

Bob unrolled the sheet he carried.
He had worked on paper with poster
colors.

“See, Gerry — what did I tell
you?” exclaimed Wyn triumphantly.

And as he looked at the painting,
Gerry began to get enthusiastic
about the campaign Wyn had visu-
alized.

It wasn’t just a glamor picture.
He had seen much prettier girls,
more seductive girls, sexier girls —
but he had never seen anyone so

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

98

appealing. She reached out of the
paper, young, warm, vital . . . and
exotic. That was what struck Gerry
immediately and made his interest
mount until he could hardly tear
his eyes from the picture. It was
exactly what AMAB wanted: a girl
who was obviously alien (except to
anyone from Greensing), and yet
sensationally attractive without ap-
pealing to one sex only. A glance
at Wyn showed that she approved,
too. Moyra — at any rate, Moyra
as seen by Bob was that rare
type, the girl who could enchant
both men and women.

“Did you mean this for AMAB,
Bob.?” Wyn asked.

“No, I didn’t mean to show
it at all. I did it as my own
private picture of Moyra, But last
night ...” For the first time he
showed anger, a quiet, controlled
fury which was the last thing one
would expect of an artist. “I saw
them kicking Moyra, Gerry. I was
clinging to a wall, dizzy, unable to
do anything about it, but I could
see it all right. Can you imagine it,
what it’s like to see your girl lying
on the ground and men kicking her.?
Think of someone doing that to
Wyn, and you watching and not
able to stop it.”

‘T can imagine,” said Gerry
quietly.

“Well, this isn’t much, but it’s
all I can do. I thought surely if
people knew the story, my picture
would help to make them hate the
men who — ”

“That’s just it, Bob,” Wyn said.
“It must. Everybody has a senti-
mental streak, and all we have to do
is show that and explain how Moyra’s
lying injured in the hospital — ”

“And they’ll vote AMAB,” con-
cluded Gerry, “though really the
appeal to reason in this is very slight,
if it exists at all. That’s all right —
it’s an emotional appeal we need, to
counteract Mackenzie’s coup last
night.”

“Mackenzie’s what?” asked Bob
sharply. Gerry had to explain what
he knew and guessed about Mac-
kenzie’s part in the riot. Bob sim-
mered visibly,

“Then he’s the man who’s really
responsible. I’m going to get back
at him somehow, sometime . . .”

“You will,” said Gerry, “with
this. We’ll get the printers on the
job right away.”

AMAB went to town on the
Moyra story and picture. Beauti-
fully reproduced posters went up
before evening, headed: “This is the
girl the Reahsts tried to kill!” The
picture appeared in all the later
editions of the evening papers, and
pamphlets were distributed all over
the planet.

Almost at once it was clear that
the move was as big a success as
Wyn had said it would be. The
hospital, AMAB headquarters and
newspaper offices found the phone
bell ringing all day. Everyone wanted
to know more about Moyra and
Bob, and how Moyra was. Gifts of

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

money and promises of support
poured in.

“It’s rather a tragedy,” Gerry
sighed philosophically, “that such a
big, important issue should be settled
by propaganda.”

Wyn made one of the very oc-
casional remarks which showed that
she was capable of analysis. “Did
you ever hear of any big, important
issue that was settled by anything
else?”

It was clear that the Moyra story
would have to be followed up. It
was easy enough to find the copy;
Moyra had had an interesting hfe,
what there was of it. It wasn’t so
easy to find further pictures to go
with it. Bob worked all day and all
night, but could produce nothing
which wasn’t an anticlimax after his
glorious personal portrait of Moyra.
He had meant it to be the best thing
he had ever done, and it was. He
couldn’t top it.

Moyra had never liked being
photographed, and the few pictures
of her which existed were unsuitable.
Finally Wyn had an idea and Gerry
had Moyra photographed in the
hospital, sleeping. With it was pub-
lished Bob’s picture again, as a
contrast. They were grimly effective.

“I think,” said Gerry contentedly,
“we’ve got back all the ground we
lost, and a little more/’

On hundreds of billboards the
face of Moyra Molin continued to
gaze out appealingly, a stab in the
heart of every man and woman who
had ever been guilty of racial dis-

99

crimination, who had ever refused
to believe that all men are brothers.
And particularly it was an invitation
to think again to those who at any
time had preached that marriage
to such a delectable creature should
be made illegal.

But all the same, Gerry, who was
seldom reckless, suggested quietly
to Bob when not even Wyn was
present: “If I were you. Bob, I’d
marry Moyra now, before she leaves
hospital, before the ballot.”

“You think even now mixed
marriage may be made illegal?”
Bob asked, surprised.

“I think there’s no point in wait-
ing and risking it. Certainly not if
you and Moyra are quite decided
that you want to be together, what-
ever happens. Maybe I should be
advising the opposite. Because if the
Realists win, things are going to be
tough for you two — you know
that, don’t you?”

“I can guess, but — hell, whatever
happens Moyra and I have got to
be together. You really think . . .?”

“I really think you may lose her,
unless you marry her right now.”

There was no doubt of the strength
of Bob’s feeling for Moyra. He
paled at the very suggestion. “I’ll
go down and see Moyra right away,”
he said. “If she agrees . . .”

She agreed. But the wedding was
kept quiet for the moment. A
romance is usually better propaganda
than a marriage; besides, the ad-
mission that Bob and Moyra were
rushing into marriage without wait-

100

ing for the ballot might not do
AMAB any good.

VI

The ballot was fixed for the same
time all over the galaxy. The AMAB-
Realist campaign was going on every-
where, and it seemed to be close.
Public-survey polls had been wrong
so often that hardly anyone paid
any more attention to them now
than to weather forecasts. Anyway,
they, too, suggested a close contest,
for the AMAB-conducted surveys
found a tiny AMAB majority and
the Realist surveys an equally tiny
Realist advantage.

Some commentators forecast a
sweeping victory for one side or the
other, but that was to be expected.
Nobody knew. A wealthy man could
have spent all his money on a survey
without being able to feel certain
that he knew the result. In one
world, perhaps. But the multiplicity
of worlds and the complexity of
motives and environments made it
impossible for anyone to calculate
the whole problem.

Gerry and Wyn weren’t sure.
Bob and Moyra weren’t sure. Mac-
kenzie wasn’t sure.

And most desperately uncertain
of all were Elis and Adam Bentley.
Like Bob and Moyra, they were
already married — in case. But un-
like Bob and Moyra, they were not
only uneasy, but guilty as well.

Lying on the sun-drenched beach
at Farge, on the other side of
Eastover, Elis and Adam realized

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

that some decisions couldn’t be made
once and then forgotten; they re-
p)eated themselves over and over.

They didn’t feel guilty, not ex-
actly. It was rather that everything
which should have been pleasant had
to be weighed in the balance against
what they had done, and was usually
found wanting. The sun instead of
the rain . . . you noticed it and
enjoyed it when you reminded your-
self of it, but the rest of the day
you were thinking of something else.
Not having to worry about money
for a while ... all very well, but
they had only exchanged one worry
for another. Being married at last
. . . somehow it wasn’t quite what
it should have been, with both of
them eternally looking back over
their shoulders.

They had only once in their lives
done anything they had any real
cause to regret ... so far. But
they guessed, both of them inde-
pendently, that it wouldn’t be the
last. Soon they would need money
again, and there would be no honest
way to get it.

They were dimly, vaguely, almost
unconsciously beginning to under-
stand that they hadn’t been, and
wouldn’t be, very successful in the
world because they were on the
whole rather worthless people.

From underneath a striped um-
brella, beyond which stretched two
bare legs at one end and two bare
arms at the other, came Elis’s voice:
“The ballot will settle things for us,
Adam.”

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ll see what ... I mean,
if AMAB has a terrific majority,
then what we did doesn’t matter a
damn and we can just forget it.”

“Yes,” Adam agreed. “And if it
hasn’t?”

Elis was silent. AMAB had to
have a big majority before they
could feel relieved. For they had
been traitors, that was the worst of
it. They were a mixed couple, and
they had stabbed mixed marriage
in the back. Instead of doing what
every mixed couple should do, spend
their whole lives fighting the preju-
dice which undoubtedly existed,
they had for once turned round and
pushed the other way, made things
just a little more difficult for every
mixed couple in the galaxy.

And every half-caste. That was
the other part of it, perhaps the
really important part of it. Their
own children were going to meet
trouble anyway, because they would
be neither pure Midinan nor pure
Faquistan. Every mixed couple had
to face that before they got married.

But every mixed couple didn’t
have to add to the prejudice against
themselves and their own children.

In Jordan the last two demon-
strations were being held. There
had been meetings, bazaars, balls,
fetes, variety shows and almost every
other form of social publicity-cum-
fund-raising enterprise. But no
matter how many there were, there
had to be a last one, for both parties.

lOI

By tacit agreement they were
held at the same time, in different
parts of the city. There were others
all over Eastover, of course. But
these were the main efforts.

Gerry planned his meeting as pure
entertainment. It wouldn’t have
looked good to make the final AMAB
demonstration purely a variety show,
but the same effect could be achieved
by seizing every excuse for spectacle
and entertainment as opposed to
more obvious propaganda.

At the beginning a band played
music that came from every colo-
nized planet. When everyone was
settled, he had a parade — men and
women from the thirty main worlds,
all in typical home-world costume,
and mixed without discrimination
but decoratively. That didn’t prove
anything, but it passed the time
pleasantly. Then he had as speaker
Malcolm Flint, an ex-Governor who
hadn’t been noted for his adminis-
tration but was noted for his wit.
Some AMAB propaganda films were
shown, slick, well-conceived adver-
tisement of the AMAB idea. Gerry
and Wyn themselves did a neat
little item, spontaneous-looking but
well planned and rehearsed, in which
they made the most of their own
attractive persons and personalities.

The climax was provided by Bob
Drake. He sketched on an easel, and
an epidiascope picked up every
stroke as he made it and projected
it on to the big screen behind him.
The device was extraordinarily suc-
cessful.

102

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

With deft, smooth strokes of his
pencil he sketched his own life, his
meeting with Moyra, their love
affair. Then, with a harsher, bolder
touch he showed the Spacedive riot.
The audience became hushed at the
power of the presentation. People
and scenes seemed to come alive
and move under his fingers; the
rapidity, vividness and vitality of
the pictorial dramatization left full-
color, three-dimensional films far
behind.

Bob had the dramatic gift of
stimulating, collecting and holding
interest so that details and flaws
ceased to matter. Earlier, he had
introduced his audience to himself
and to Moyra, taking time to make
himself interesting and Moyra at-
tractive. He had drawn Moyra pert
and dashing in smart rain clothes,
demure in an afternoon frock, lithe
and sleek in a swimsuit, seductive
in an evening gown. Now they knew
Moyra and could take Bob for
granted. He concerned himself with
what had happened to them.

“He’s great!” Wyn whispered ex-
ultantly. “Bob’s done far more for
AMAB than we have, Gerry.”

Gerry nodded and pressed her
hand, but didn’t take his eyes off
the screen which showed the strokes
of Bob’s flying pencil.

They saw the riot and afterwards
the attack on Bob and Moyra.
Bob’s vivid pencil became positively
brutal as it drew three thugs he had
never properly seen, Moyra falling,
and the men’s boots sinking into her

inert body. With his pencil he
speared sadism, racial discrimination
and the Realists so that a growl of
anger came from the audience. He
had them with him, no doubt of
that.

The only trouble about such a
performance was that it had to end
some time, and there was inevitably
a drop, a reluctant return to normal
immediately afterwards.

And in the silence, before the
audience had sufficiently recovered
themselves to applaud, a clear voice
asked :

“May I ask a question?”

Gerry was the chairman, but he
had forgotten that fact for the
moment. Bob, obviously the person
addressed, turned and looked in-
quiringly at Gerry, waiting for him
to say something. The audience,
about to burst into thunderous ap-
plause, were checked, startled.

The questioner didn’t wait for an
answer. It seemed a long pause
before he spoke again, but it couldn’t
have been more than a second or
two.

“Is it true that you and Moyra
were married yesterday?” asked the
clear voice.

Again Bob hesitated, looking at
Gerry. After all, it wasn’t Bob’s
AMAB campaign, but Gerry’s. Apart
from the job he had just done. Bob
didn’t know how Gerry wanted
things handled — particularly this
question, which had been carefully
avoided.

Only one answer was possible,

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

Gerry decided. They couldn’t lie,
when it might be proved they were
lying. They couldn’t refuse to an-
swer, not on the very eve of the poll.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

At once he plunged into an im-
promptu effort to nullify any ad-
verse effect of the admission: “As
you’ll have seen from Bob’s story,
he and Moyra are very much in
love, and when this happened
they — ”

“Thank you,” said the clear voice.

All over the hall people got up
to go. Trying to say any more would
only make Gerry look ridiculous.

It was another neat Mackenzie
job. He had found out somehow
about the brief, formal marriage at
the hospital, and made full use of
the discovery. Seeing that Moyra,
Bob and Gerry weren’t going to
announce it, he waited until it was
too late, until it was obvious that
they were trying to hide the fact,
and then forced them to admit it.

“Is it really important?” Wyn
asked on the way home, puzzled at
Gerry’s unusual despondency.

“I’m afraid it is. If we had brought
it out at the right moment, it
might not have done any harm —
only I preferred not to, because I
knew it was risky to give any
impression that we were scared of
the ballot, that we expected to lose
it or that we were encouraging
mixed couples to get married before
it was too late. Trust Mackenzie to
find the worst possible moment to
drag it out — after we’d almost

103

denied the marriage, by implication.”

Such subtleties were beyond Wyn.
“It can’t make so much difference,
surely,” she remarked. “We had a
good meeting otherwise, and — ”

“What I’m worried about,” mur-
mured Gerry, “is Mackenzie’s meet-

* —
mg.

When they reached home Gerry
phoned the colleague he had sent to
the Realist meeting. It had been
much as he expected.

There had been no mention of
Bob and Moyra until late in the
program — Mackenzie hadn’t wanted
any warning to be phoned to Gerry
at the AMAB meeting, probably —
but when it came it was extremely
effective. Mackenzie himself had
reviewed the story of Moyra and
Bob, revealed their marriage and
made all the points that Gerry had
been afraid he’d make.

“I should never have let those
two get married,” Gerry said regret-
fully.

Wyn started. “But it was you
who suggested it!”

“Yes — in their interests. In our
interests I should have made sure
it didn’t happen. Mackenzie would
have, if he were me.”

“If you were Mackenzie, your
wife’s first name wouldn’t be Wyn.”

“But I might be more successful
politically.”

Wyn shrugged. “Well, if you
prefer mere political success to
married bliss . . .”

Gerry laughed, with an effort, and
tried not to show he was still con-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

104

cerned about the effect Mackenzie’s
last stroke must have had.

VII

It was a pity, from the AMAB
point of view, that there were any
newspapers at all on the morning
of the ballot. Nothing in them did
the AMAB cause any good, and a
great deal in them did it a lot of
harm.

Before he went to bed Gerry had
done what he could, in a statement
to the press, to retrieve the Bob-
Moyra situation. It wasn’t a ques-
tion of being unsure of the verdict,
he declared. Weren’t Bob and Moyra
entitled to a secret marriage as much
as anyone else? What more natural
than that Bob should suggest it so
that they could go away together
immediately Moyra was cleared at
the hospital?

But Gerry’s copy was poor, weak
stuff compared with the case for the
Realists, and he knew it.

“Anyway,” he told Wyn philo-
sophically, “it’s too late to do any-
thing new now. There are rallies,
parades and loudspeaker appeals, but
they’re all fixed. There’s nothing
much for us to do but wait for the
returns.”

“How is this planet-unit system
going to work?” Wyn asked. Natu-
rally she didn’t understand mathe-
matics.

“Each world sends in a ratio,
that’s all,” Gerry explained patiently,
not for the first time. “Suppose
Greensing has sixty-nine million

votes for AMAB and thirty- three
million for the Realists. Greensing
sends just 23: ii, and that’s inte-
grated with all the other worlds’
ratios — ”

“Tell me, Gerry,” Wyn inter-
rupted. “I’ve always wondered —
how do you integrate things?”

Gerry didn’t attempt an expla-
nation of that.

Though there wasn’t much they
could do any more, they made the
expected public appearances, looking
confident, friendly and happy. They
saw Mackenzie twice, out on the
same job, but didn’t speak to him.
Gerry alone would have done so. It
was only on Wyn’s account that he
avoided an encounter which she
would have disliked.

And during the day the issue
didn’t clarify itself. Sometimes it
seemed that everyone was voting
Realist, and sometimes it looked as
if AMAB was going to have a
walkover.

There was no trouble, no more
than at any balloting. Nobody was
reported hurt, though there was
some scuffling here and there. There
were no big crowds anywhere, no
impromptu demonstrations. As ex-
pected, both floral parades were
rained off. Gerry had arranged his
to be as waterproof as possible, but
steady rain was too much for it, and
the rain didn’t stop all day.

The rain had toned down the
whole campaign. Many things which
would certainly have been done in
a drier city were never possible in

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

Jordan. Every big event had to be
inside. It was no use arranging out-
door shows if people wouldn’t go
outside to see them. And except for
the Spacedive riot there were no
fights — steady rain is enough to
cool most tempers.

At eight in the evening Mac-
kenzie and the Youngs couldn’t
avoid a meeting. Gerry was astonished
to see how tired and worried Mac-
kenzie looked.

“Only an hour to go,” Gerry said
kindly.

“And then five hours before the
first returns,” added Wyn, less kindly.

“You people treat this as a game,”
exclaimed Mackenzie almost angrily.
They both stared at him in surprise.

“I’d have said you were the one
who treated it as a game,” Gerry
observed. “A chess game — one you
wanted to win, certainly, but no
more than — ”

“Don’t you understand?” Mac-
kenzie demanded, actually angry
for the first time in Gerry’s experi-
ence of him. “You want to win so
that all men will be brothers. You
think that if you do, that will make
the galaxy wide open, free, without
prejudice, happy — by some sort of
magic, I suppose. I want to win be-
cause the galaxy isrtt wide open, free,
and without prejudice. I want to
stop the silly farce of pretending
difference of race doesn’t matter,
when — ”

“You’re twisted,” Wyn flashed
at him. “Do you think it isn’t
obvious what’s happened to you?

105

You loved a girl of another race
once, and she wouldn’t have you.
She spat in your eye. And now you
see a chance to take a queer, per-
verted revenge on her and every-
body like her. You think that since
you couldn’t have her^ no mixed'
couples should ever be allowed to
marry — ”

Mackenzie swore at her, furiously,
bitterly and unprintably.

Wyn seemed to enjoy this. She
looked at Gerry expressively, as if
to say “See what kind of a man he
really is, when you get down to it?”

Makenzie recovered himself. He
ignored Wyn. “I suppose you’re
going to hit me for saying that to
your wife?” he asked Gerry bluntly.

Gerry shook his head. “Not at
all,” he said. “She was trying to
annoy you. She doesn’t like you.
Incidentally, is what she said true?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but
he got it.

“Yes,” said Mackenzie quietly,
fiercely. “Not that I’m trying to
take revenge for what happened —
that’s nonsense. But it’s true that
once, though I knew it was wrong,
though I knew we’d both regret it.
I’d have married a girl who — ”

“It wasn’t wrong,” Wyn declared
vehemently. “It was right, the only
right thing in your life, and you’ve
gone all wrong since.”

“I’ve said more than I meant to
say,” Mackenzie said in the same
quiet, fierce tone, “and, as usually ,
happens when that occurs. I’m al-
ready regretting it. Goodnight.’*

io6

He spun round abruptly and
stalked off.

“Wyn,” said Gerry mildly, “I’m
sorry to have to say this. You acted
just now like the very people we’re
fighting. It’s irrationality, prejudice,
bias, hatred we’re up against and
you . .

Without warning Wyn burst into
tears. Gerry held out for a few
seconds, then said he hadn’t meant
a word of it.

At nine o’clock the period of real
tension started — after the poll, when
the counting was going on every-
where. ,

When results began to come in there
would be an avalanche, for counting
was supposed to take about the same
time everywhere and ultraradio was
virtually instantaneous.

Gerry and Wyn went to bed and
slept. That was another thing they
had in common, the ability to sleep
anywhere, any time. Wyn remarked
sleepily just before she dropped off:
“We certainly can’t have guilty
consciences, Gerry.”

Gerry was a little befuddled with
sleep too. He murmured vaguely:
“I don’t feel guilty about anything
I’ve done. Maybe about what I
haven t done ...”

After four hours’ sleep they were
back at AMAB headquarters, wait-
ing. A dozen people stood impatiendy
in a big, draughty room.

“I’ve just had a call from the city
hall,” somebody said. “Eastover
won’t be one of the first in. One of
the boxes was delayed.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

First in was Earth. The poll there
was biggest, but it was the world
most competent to deal rapidly with
a ballot. The message read:

EARTH AMAB 21 : REALIST 62.

Gerry shrugged his shoulders. “We
knew that — and Earth is out of
this, anyway,” he observed. “The
matter hardly concerns Earth. Let’s
see what the other worlds have to
say.”

Everybody else standing about
had much the same point of view,
and waited eagerly for the next
result. Earth was the one world in
a special position. For all the other
worlds the poll meant something
different.

A long screen had been rigged
up so that the instant the results
came over the ultraradio they ap-
peared in black and white. Simul-
taneously they were being shown
outside, where a crowd was waiting.
A faint cheer had greeted the first
return, not so much because of the
result as because it was a result,
after hours of waiting, and would
soon be followed by others.

Without warning, the next flashed
on.

SCARISAC — AMAB 314: REALIST

193.

This time there was a loud cheer
outside.

Wyn jumped delightedly, grasp-
ing Gerry’s arm. “That’s great,
Gerry!” she exclaimed. “Three to
one!”

Gerry didn’t correct her mathe-
matics. A wave of relief flooded him.

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

AMAB wasn’t unduly strong on
Scarisac, as far as he knew. The vote
there might be representative.

“I hope,” he murmured, “that
Scarisac didn’t have a particularly
good AMAB campaign, or a particu-
larly bad Realist one.”

“Why?” asked Wyn. She didn’t
shine at drawing such inferences.

“Because if either or both of those
things were so, that result may be
the only — ”

The screen flashed again.

RINAN — AMAB 97: REALIST 60.

“That’s not so good,” said Wyn.

“Not so good?” Gerry exclaimed.
“It’s almost the same ratio, honey!
That means — ”

Another cheer sounded outside.
Gerry spun back to look at the
screen.

FAQUISTA — AMAB 1 63 ! REALIST
lOI.

“And so is that!” he shouted, and
kissed Wyn in his enthusiasm. “We’ve
won, Wyn!”

Wyn was happy enough, but
puzzled. “What do you mean, we’ve
won? That’s only the fourth result.”

“Yes, but don’t you see?” Gerry
was almost incoherent in his excite-
ment. “The ratio’s the same every
time. It’ll go on being the same, too.
This is one of those fundamental
issues on which people have the
same views practically everywhere,
apparently. It can’t be coincidence
that all three results, apart from
Earth’s, have been so similar.”

He stopped as another result
flashed.

107

MORNEN AMAB 82: REALIST 7I.

“Maybe not,” he said more quietly,
a cloud passing over his face.

“What’s the matter.? We won
there too.”

“ Y es, but not by the same margin.
Maybe I spoke too soon. I was be-
ginning to hope that people had
made up their minds on this, and
reached the same conclusion every-
where. I certainly hadn’t expected
that. Not until those results — ”

The screen lit up again.

METAPUR AMAB 24 1 : REALIST

153*

The cloud disappeared from
Gerry’s face and his broad grin came
back. “All showing exactly the same
thing,” he concluded.

Wyn remained puzzled. “I don’t
see it.”

Gerry hadn’t expected she would.
It would be a long and arduous
business making it clear to Wyn that
241:153, 163:101, 97:60 and 314:193
were practically the same thing.

“We needn’t have worried about
Bob and Moyra,” he said, as the
cheer outside died away. “There
won’t be an intermarriage ban.
There won’t be an increase in racial
discrimination. People will continue
to marry whoever they hke, and
when you and I are divorced I’ll
marry a Metapurian — ”

Wyn tried to hack his shins, but
missed.

“We might as well go
honey,” said Gerry expansively.

“But we don’t know about East-
over yet!” Wyn exclaimed.

io8

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“I do. We won here too. I don’t
think there was ever a real contest
here at all. Mackenzie and I put up
a show, but people just glanced at
our acts and then went and voted
as they’d intended all along.”

“You can’t possibly tell . . .”
Wyn began, and stopped to look at
the screen again.

GREENSING — AMAB 1 33: REALIST

81.

“You can’t possibly tell,” Wyn
repeated stubbornly, “that they’re
all going to be hke this. We may
have lost on some world or other.
Maybe here.”

The cheers outside had neither
grown nor diminished. As each result
appeared, the same cheer went up.
Most people were as cautious as
Wyn, not sure yet of victory or
defeat.

But there was suddenly a bigger
shout, and Gerry and Wyn turned
to see:

EASTOVER — AMAB 407: REALIST

251.

Gerry sighed contentedly. “At
least we didn’t do worse than any-
where else,” he said. “Poor Mac-
kenzie. He never had a chance, with
all his maneuvering.”

“Poor Mackenzie, indeed!” said
Wyn indignantly. “He’s the last
man in the galaxy I’d feel sorry for.
I’ll bet he — ”

A girl came up and said: “Mr.
Mackenzie on the phone, Mr.
Young.”

Wyn looked surprised. “What can
he want.^”

“Just to offer polite congratula-
tions,” said Gerry. “It’s the usual
thing. Excuse me.”

He hurried to the phone.

“Hullo, Mackenzie,” he said.
“Well, it looks as if we needn’t have
bothered chasing votes, either of us,
doesn’t it.'^”

“Yes,” came Mackenzie’s dry
voice. “Most unsatisfactory.”

Gerry chuckled. “For you, cer-
tainly.”

“And you. There were two things
I hoped of this referendum, Young.
The second was that the Realists
would win by a small majority.”

“The second.?” Gerry echoed.

“Exactly. The first was that your
party would win by a very large
majority indeed.”

“Huh?”

“May I come over and see you?”

‘ ‘Certainly. Bring the explanation
of that last remark with you, will
you?”

“I will.” Mackenzie rang off.

“So he wanted us to win, did
he?” Wyn said, when she heard
about it. “What’s this he’s giving
us?”

“I don’t know, honey,” said
Gerry. “Let’s wait and see, shall we?”

There were good-humored cheers
when Mackenzie arrived and was
recognized. Nobody hissed or booed,
or if anyone did he was drowned out.

Mackenzie stalked into AMAB
headquarters as if he owned them.
There was nothing unusual, in that.
That was his way.

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

However, Wyn couldn’t help ask-
ing tartly: “Have you ordered your
sackcloth and ashes?”

“I’m wearing them,” said Mac-
kenzie imperturbably.

Gerry waved him into a private
room. As Mackenzie marched inside,
Gerry looked doubtfully at Wyn.
It would certainly be a more civil,
polite interview if Wyn wasn’t
there. . . .

But Wyn had no intention of not
being there. Gerry sighed and fol-
lowed her in.

“So you wanted us to win,” she
was saying. “That was nice of you.
Why didn’t you join the AMAB
party?”

“Because that wouldn’t have al-
tered the situation,” said Mackenzie.
“Galactically, I don’t exist. I’m
only a statistic, and statistics only
exist in the plural. Do you mind,
Mrs. Young, if I talk to your
husband?”

“Go ahead,” said Wyn. “There
he is. He talks English and every-
thing.”

Mackenzie settled himself in the
hardest chair he could find. That
was characteristic. He looked, no
doubt, for the most comfortable
chair — and picked the hardest.

“If the Realists had won,” he said
abruptly, “that would have ended
this silly farce that we’re living in
a free, utopian galaxy, where every-
one has an equal opportunity and
the color of a man’s skin or his exact
proportions don’t really matter.”

“Farce?” murmured Gerry. “Isn’t

109

this . . . farce what’s just been
proved to be the case?”

Mackenzie stared at him levelly.
“Don’t you see what the vote means,
Young?”

“Yes. There won’t be any anti-
intermarriage law.”

“Oh, that. Yes. But then, there
was never much question of such a
law, was there?”

Wyn was lost, but suspicious.
“What are you up to now?” she
demanded.

“Please, Mrs. Young,” said Mac-
kenzie, “don’t assume that every-
thing I say is a lie, everything I do
directed against freedom and de-
cency. I’m telling you I wanted the
same things as you — but I didn’t
assume, like you, that they were
true just because I wanted them to
be true.”

He looked back at Gerry. “There
was never fikely to be an actual ban
on intermarriage,” he said. “After
all, the political form in the galaxy
has always been democracy, and in
democracies half the population never
really imposes its will on the other
half. It seems so sometimes, but on
a social question like this there
couldn’t be a workable law. Not a
law. That would be like the old
Whigs and Tories holding an election,
the Whigs winning and forcing all
the Tories to become Whigs.”

“But the Realists always said — ”
Wyn began.

“I know what we said. You’ve
got to make the issues clear when
you ask the whole population to

no

decide something. For or against
intermarriage — do we ban it? But
if we’d won, there wouldn’t have
been an actual law. Just the poll,
the warning. The knowledge that
the balance of opinion in the galaxy
was against intermarriage — that
would have ended the farce.”

“You keep talking about a farce,”
said Gerry. “You haven’t explained
what you mean yet.”

“I shall,” said Mackenzie. “Pre-
sumably, since I was your opponent,
you found out what you could
about me. You discovered, I expect,
that I was born on Metapur, of
Terran parents. That was a lie, a
carefully-chosen lie. That was the
only respectable origin I might have
had, looking as I look. The only
thing that would be accepted. Actu-
ally I’m of Rinan-Greensing-Scari-
sac-Metapur stock. A quarter- breed.
A mongrel, if you prefer it.”

“Then it seems even more reason-
able,” said Gerry, “to expect you
to be on our side, not fighting for
the Realists.”

“That’s the mistake which all you
people who know nothing about this
problem make. The Realists are just
that. Young. They see things as
they are, not as they’d like them to
be. Your people are a mixture of
starry-eyed idealists and youngsters
like Bob Drake and his Moyra,
refusing to see that they’re heading
for trouble.

“Listen: I lived on Rinan, Green-
sing and Scarisac with my parents
and alone. I had plenty of oppor-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tunity to find out what it was like
to be a half-caste, how a half-caste
is treated. I’m not unduly sensitive.
I’m not easily hurt. But what hap-
pened to me made me determined
to try to handle the problem politi-
cally if I could. To admit the
prejudice, not pretend it didn’t
exist, and work out a basis for work-
ing relations between the various
races.

“Believe me, people Hke you
aren’t merely unqualified to deal
with this question — you shouldn’t
be allowed even to vote on it.”

Wyn bristled at that. “I didn’t
think you could be so narrow
and — ” she began, but this time it
was Gerry who motioned her to be
quiet.

“I mean it,” said Mackenzie, with
more warmth than Gerry would
ever have expected of him. “Who
knows what being a half-caste is like
except a half-caste? It’s stronger and
deeper than ever the color bar was
on Earth. Then it was a case of the
same kind of man with a different
colored skin. Now every planet
forces people who breed on it to
adapt, gradually, and by the third
generation they’re a different species,
and they’re treated as such.”

Gerry pursed his lips. “That’s a
bit of an exaggeration.”

“No it’s not. I’m not saying the
species differ a lot. They don’t —
hardly at all sometimes. But they
are different species. Though inter-
breeding will probably always be
possible between all the races —

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

III

that doesn’t make a Rinan the same
as a Scarisacian.

“And people are aware of this.
Not everybody, and not in the same
way. You two are pretending not
to be aware of it at all.”

“Because it isn’t so,” muttered
Wyn.

“Sh,” said Gerry gently. “What
Mackenzie’s saying makes sense. I
think we’d better let him go on and
make sense some more, if he can.”

Mackenzie smiled faintly. “I’m
glad. Young,” he said. “I thought
you’d understand, but I couldn’t be
sure.”

“I believe what I’m told, generally.

“If you’re to understand this, you
have to believe it. You have to take
it on trust, because it can’t ever
happen to you.”

“It’s bad, is it.^^”

“No, it isrft bad, really. Which
is partly why you have to take what
I say on trust. Because if I brought
it down to actual instances and
incidents, what happened to me
would seem like nothing at all. That
girl I told you about — she might
have turned me down just as any
girl turns down a man she finds she
doesn’t love after all. But it wasn’t
like that. None of it was like that.
There’s a real prejudice, a real hate
— the sort of thing that made those
thugs follow Drake and Miss Molin,
and strike her down and kick her.”

“We all knew about that,” Gerry
said. “We were trying to fight it.”

“By pretending it didn’t exist. I
told you I wanted you to win by

a tremendous majority. Naturally,
that was what I really wanted. But
I knew you wouldn’t. You couldn’t,
because there was this prejudice —
there is this prejudice, and always
will be. It’ll get worse . . . it’s
bound to get worse . .

“No!” exclaimed Wyn.

Mackenzie ignored her.

“Can’t you see, we must admit
the difference, and control it. That
way lies comparative peace and
safety and cooperation between the
different groups.”

“All men should be brothers,”
Gerry murmured, “but they’re not,
any more. Is that what you mean.?”

Wyn looked from one to the
other. “Will someone please tell
me,” she said distinctly, “who won
this poll, AMAB or the Realists.?”

Nobody answered her.

VIII

Instead of going home Wyn and
Gerry went to a deserted spot that
meant a lot to them. It was on a hill
overlooking Jordan, and it was lonely
and deserted for one excellent reason.
There was only one path to it
through a marsh, and few people
trusted themselves to remember it.

It was where Wyn and Gerry had
become engaged.

For once it wasn’t raining. There
is no friendlier city in the whole
galaxy than Jordan when it isn’t
raining. Gerry and Wyn put down
their unnecessary waterproofs, sat
on them and clasped each other
comfortably.

II2

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

*‘Not very long ago,” said Wyn,
‘‘I said Mackenzie was the last man
in the galaxy Fd feel sorry for. I
was wrong. He isn’t bad, really.
I don’t understand him, of course,
but . . • I think he must have been
all right, once.”

Gerry stroked her hair gently.
“It makes a difference when you
know he is vulnerable, after all,
doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s it. You’re
sorry for anyone who’s been hurt,
who can be hurt. It’s only when
they’re beyond all feeling, as I
thought Mackenzie was . .

They were silent for a long time.
They didn’t have to talk. Being
together was enough for them. They
had talked more during the AMAB
campaign than they’d found it nec-
essary to talk for years. Once, long
ago, they’d had to talk, hunting for
new, interesting subjects so that the
vacuum of silence should never lie
between them.

But they had found that silence
needn’t be a vacuum. There could
be so much in it that sometimes
speech broke the spell, shattered
the golden silence that was one proof
of the fact that they belonged to-
gether.

They watched the dawn break
gently, mistily over the city, the
yellow dawn of Eastover. They
didn’t feel it necessary to say a word
about it.

When Wyn spoke, the subject
was the same as when they had
spoken last. “He’s somewhere down

there, alone,” she said. “Always
alone. Successful, of course. Maybe
that’s something. But not even suc-
cessful, this morning.”

She turned abruptly to face Gerry,
breaking the mood of the last half-
hour. “Gerry, I never understood.
Can I understand? Can you explain
it simply, why Mackenzie isn’t satis-
fied, why you aren’t satisfied, what
the poll really meant?”

Gerry sighed. “I’ll try. Mackenzie,
like all half-castes, like Moyra and
Bob, like all the people really con-
cerned in this thing, wanted an
AMAB majority that would show
there was no prejudice, no racial
hate. But Mackenzie knew it
wouldn’t happen. Knew well enough
not to be even trying for that, but
what he regarded as the second-best
thing. A mandate to try to settle
the race question rationally, realisti-
cally. Admit the prejudice and hate
and try to control them. By co-
operation, reason, if not trust. Got
that?”

“I see the idea. I don’t know if
it’s right, but I see how it could be
right.”

“Well, you see if the Realists had
won the poll, they’d have had the
mandate. They could go ahead. But
what happened? We won it — AMAB
won it. By three to two, roughly.”

He sighed again. “Funny how I
didn’t see what that meant. That
when Bob and Moyra are with
fifty people, thirty won’t care about
them one way or the other, and
twenty will think they should never

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

have been allowed to marry. Voting
AMAB doesn’t mean you love every
mixed couple, it just means you
believe in their right to marry if
they want to. And voting Realist
means, generally, you’re prejudiced
against all races' but your own,
you don’t like mixed marriages,
you don’t think they should be
allowed — ”

“I see,” said Wyn. “It’s quite
clear when you put it that way.
Bob and Moyra are going to have
a lot of trouble, just as you said,
aren’t they?”

“And not only Bob and Moyra,”
said Gerry.

When they went back to Jordan
it was raining again, but it was the
light drizzle which, in Jordan, you
ignored. Elsewhere you’d have said
it was raining, but in Jordan you
merely said it was damp.

Jordan was wakening up. The news-
bills were flashing, though there were
few people about yet to see them.

The Sketch, in green lights, said
soberly: amab wins galaxy: real-
ists HOLD EARTH.

The Mirror, in red lights, de-
clared more journalistically: real-
ists NIXED. AMAB BEATS THE BAN.

The Sun — you never knew
whether the Sun had its tongue in
its cheek or not — said : you too

CAN MARRY A GREENS INGEr!

The Star tried a paraphrase of the
election phrases, not too success-
fully: ALL MEN CAN BE BROTHERS-
IN'LAW.

“You’d think we’d settled some-
thing,” said Gerry. “And we haven’t.
When men started colonizing worlds
that were going to make them
adapt physically, they started some-
thing nobody will ever be able to
settle.”

“Then there’s no use worrying
about it,” said Wyn matter-of-factly.
“Let’s get home and get some sleep.”

They didn’t speak again until
they were in their bedroom. Then
Wyn spoke hesitantly.

“Gerry — I know I’m not clever,
and you and Mackenzie were talking
over my head, seeing things I didn’t
see — and maybe you were right.
But you know how I sometimes see
things you don’t see — like how we
could use Bob’s picture, and — ”

Gerry looked up with interest.
“Have you got an idea again, honey?”

“It’s about this poll. You and
Mackenzie seem to be satisfied that
though there was an AMAB ma-
jority, the poll shows there’s an
awful lot of race hate and all the
rest of it, and that couples like Bob
and Moyra are going to find a lot
of dislike and prejudice stacked up
against them.”

“That’s just it, Wyn.”

She slipped into bed and sat
clasping her arms round her knees,
frowning with the effort of trying
to explain something she just saw.

“But don’t you see,” she asked,
“what’s going to happen now? It
seems to me that people who voted
Realist will see now that most people
think differently from them, and

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

II4

maybe they’d better get in line and
not make a nuisance of themselves.
I mean, they know they’re in the
minority. Some of them will think
again and decide maybe the AMAB
idea is right after all.”

Gerry stared at her, wondering
if once more she was right when
he thought there wasn’t a chance.

“I think if they took another
vote right now,” Wyn went on,
“everybody who was AMAB last
time would still be AMAB. But a
lot of people who were Realist would

be AMAB this time. People don’t
like to stray from the herd, Gerry.
I ... I know I’m often wrong,
I say silly things, but I can see this.
If we were Realists, and Bob and
Moyra came to live next door to us,
would we fight with them, knowing
most people were on their side.? I
don’t think we would.”

“Honey,” said Gerry, “I could
kiss you.”

Wyn’s frown of concentration dis-
solved. “Well, there’s only one an-
swer to that,” she said.

Coming T^ext >M.onth

In our next issue, on the stands in early May, we’ll joyously cele-
brate the return to F&SF, after too long an absence, of Damon
Knight, whose novelet, YouWe Another^ is a wonderful blend of slap-
stick and solidity, a zany adventure story with a new science fiction
twist. In the same issue, Chad Oliver again brings his knowledge of
anthropology to bear on the problems of the interplanetary future
in Artifact y and Old Master P. G. Wodehouse pronounces the defini-
' tive word on mad scientists in A Slice of Life. There’ll also be another
in our series of rediscovered stories by Saki, a further tale of Manly
Wade Wellman’s ballad-singing John, and stories by August Derleth,
Evelyn E. Smith and others.

Another F&SF first story ^ by a young man who works with digital comput-
ers but writes of older and stranger things*

Who's Counting.

by RODGER LOWE

When mike and lois moved in,
they didn’t ask the landlord about
the other tenants, because the apart-
ment was such a bargain that they
didn’t want to seem critical.

“Sometimes,” Mike said one night,
“I wish we had asked about the
neighbors. It seems silly, though.”

“I know,” Lois replied, handing
Mike a platter to dry. “Other apart-
ments we’ve had have been a lot
more noisy, but this — ” She stopped
speaking and Mike stopped wiping
as they both heard it.

The sound was faint at first, com-
ing from the foot of the stairs: tap-
thump, XSiP'thump^ tdip-thump.

They stood immobile as the sound
slowly crescendoed to a peak at the
second-story landing outside their
door, then faded in the upstairs
direction, was interrupted by the
opening and closing of the door to
3A, continued through six repeti-
tions of the \,2i^-thump pattern, and
stopped.

“Thank heaven, he sat down,”
Lois sighed, resuming her washing.

“We’re just lucky he’s an old

man,” Mike commented. “Doesn’t
walk around much up there. Where
does this go.^^” He waved the platter.

“Second shelf, honey. Two weeks
here and you still don’t know where
to put things. Let’s find another
apartment.”

Accepting a handful of wet silver-
ware from his wife, Mike considered
the suggestion. “I don’t know what
to say. This is just right for us. Close
to my job, and the rent’s ridicu-
lously low. That landlord doesn’t
know what he could be getting for
the place.”

“I wonder.” Pulling the stopper,
Lois mopped up the sink with the
dishcloth. “Maybe the last tenants
had the same trouble.”

Mike shrugged. “We’ll probably
get used to it.” He tossed the towel
onto the rack and headed for the
living room. “Besides, how could I
possibly get the deposit back from
the landlord on an excuse like that?
Can you hear me saying, ‘Mr. Chor-
ney, we want to break our lease
because the man upstairs "has a
wooden leg’?” He grinned ruefully.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ll6

As Lois snapped out the kitchen
light and join^ Mike, it started
again, just loud enough to be heard
clearly: tap'/A«w/?, tap-zAwm/?, tap-
thump^ X.2ip'thump.

“Went out to the kitchen,” Mike
observed, from the easy chair.

“Fll turn on the TV,” Lois said.

She waited for the set to warm
up, tuned out a syrupy weather an-
nouncer warning lovers that to-
night’s full moon would be obscured
by clouds, and sdected a mystery
show. After adjusting the volume to
cover any sounds from above, she
joined Mike in the easy chair.

But they had to go to bed some-
time.

About eleven thirty — a dull play
and two old movies later, to be exact
— they retired.

The summer air was warm and
humid, and faint, cloud-dimmed
moonlight came through the opened
windows.

Mike rolled over and took his wife
gently in his arms.

“ ‘Night, honey,” she breathed,
sleepily.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He ter-
minated the sentence with a kiss,
and —

T2ip-thumpl sounded from over-
head.

“Oh, no!” Mike groaned, releas-
ing his wife.

“He’s always been in bed by this
time,” Lois said, stirring uneasily.

Tdip'thumpy it came again; tap'

thumps t2Lp'thump, across the floor
above, Xzp'thump^ tdip-thump, TAP.

A minute passed.

“Maybe he got stuck in a knot-
hole.” Mike’s attempt at humor was
interrupted by Lois’ urgently whis-
pered

And, tensely, they both waited.

Another minute and another.
Mike and Lois turned over a time or
two, then, afraid the rustle of their
movement in the bed might cover
the anticipated sound from above,
they lay stiffly, staring at the ceiling.

“In God’s name, why doesn’t he
put his foot down?” Lois whispered,
so sharply that it could have been a
scream.

Mike did not speak.

A distant church bell chimed the
hour of twelve.

In the sky, the ragged clouds
parted, and the milk-white light of
the full moon fell through the win-
dows upon the upturned faces of the
two.

Then, they heard it.

Thump, Their tension snapped as
though cut by a knife, and as they
relaxed, limply —

Thump,

And again — thump.

Then, across the upstairs floor,
and down the stairs: x.2ip'thump'
thump'thumpy tzp' thump- thump'
thumps t2i^'thump' thump- thump.

Outside their door, they heard
the scratch of claws as it fumbled for
the knob.

John Novotny y the bright nova of Thorne Smith madness y offers a cautionary
tale with a simfle moral: Never hire a redheaded secretary unless you intend
to take full advantage of all her services.

T'he Tfin Halo

by JOHN NOVOTNY

Timothy Weldon sat uncomfort-
ably on the extreme edge of the bed
and frowned at the two straight-
backed wooden chairs in the small
room.

“I should think,” he called, “that
the salary I pay you as my secretary
would warrant the purchase of one
small easy chair.”

Dinah’s soft low-pitched laugh
disengaged itself from the tinkle of
glasses and ice cubes and snaked its
way out of the kitchen. It broke
down Tim’s guard and agitated his
blood pressure. When he had hired
Dinah, her laugh was a rather inno-
cent affair, but it had changed, sub-
tly and irresistibly. It became a
mesh, a net of caresses that caused
the hair on the back of his neck to
itch.

“It deteriorated morally,” he
stated aloud.

Dinah appeared in the kitchen
doorway.

“Who did?”

“Who did what?” Tim asked.

“Deteriorated morally,” Dinah

grinned, standing so that one leg
was shown to best advantage by the
incompletely buttoned housecoat.
The leg was golden tan, the house-
coat soft white, and burning around
her shoulders was Dinah’s red hair,
Tim looked away.

“No one,” he answered, “I w^
thinking out loud.”

“Oh.”

Dinah disappeared into the
kitchen and Tim studied the chairs
again. The memory of the white
housecoat blurred his vision and he
reached up slowly to undo his black
bow tie. Dinah’s voice startled him.

“You don’t look very comforta-
ble. Why don’t you lie down?”

Tim regarded the kitchen door-
way suspiciously.

“My shoes would dirty up the
bedspread.”

“That’s simple,” the answer sped
back. “Take off the shoes.”

Silence flooded the small apartment
and hung in the air for a full half
minute. Then the impatient pop of a
bottle cap announced Dipah again.

117

ii8

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Go ahead. Take them off. I’m
not going to attack your feet.”

When she came out carrying the
tray and drinks, Tim was reclining
warily on the bed. He was certain
the housecoat had lost ground by at
least one more button in each direc-
tion.

“And open your collar,” Dinah
commanded. “After dinner, a show,
and dancing, we are entitled to a lit-
tle comfort. I’ve practically taken
off everything.”

“So I see,” Tim said wryly.

“I was afraid you hadn’t noticed,”
she smiled, leaning forward to hand
him his drink.

“To get back to the easy chair
question,” Tim said hastily. “If your
salary isn’t — ”

. “It is,” Dinah said. “But I sit
down all day typing your letters and
answering the phone. All that sitting
isn’t good. Look.”

She pulled the housecoat tightly
about her and patted a hip. “See?”

She moved closer to the bed and
slapped the soft contour again.

“Just feel that,” she complained.
Tim worked his way to the opposite
side of the bed. Dinah followed him.

“You’re spilling the scotch,” she
said. “Go ahead. Feel that.”

Tim poked a tentative forefinger
at the area indicated. Hardly denting
the white material, he pulled the
finger back quickly.

“Horrible,” he agreed.

“Well, not too horrible,” Dinah
protested. “But a girl must be care-
ful.”

“So must a man,” muttered Tim.

“And that’s why there is no easy
chair. Move over,” Dinah con-
cluded.

She turned out all the lights ex-
cept one lamp by the radio, tuned in
some soft music, and settled back on
the bed beside Tim. He started to
get up.

“I think I’ll have another drink.”

“I have the bottle, ice, and soda
right here,” Dinah purred.

“Thank you,” he said weakly.
Dinah laughed softly and/ the web
closed in on Tim. He watched her
toes working sinuously until the blue
fur slippers fell off and tumbled to
the floor. They landed with two
cushioned, but distinctly sinful,
thuds. Tim drank deeply. The scotch
raced through him, brushing aside
convictions and inhibitions like a
flood tide. He turned and appraised
the redheaded secretary. Dinah
smiled wantonly and the scotch
boiled a little as it passed his ears.
Slowly she reached up and flicked
open another button on the house-
coat. Tim fell off the edge of the bed.

“Oh, damn,” Dinah sighed. She
leaned over and looked down at him.
“Come back up here.”

Tim shook his head.

“You’ll have to button that but-
ton first,” he said decisively.

“You do it.”

“Impossible.”

“Try.”

“If you wish.”

He climbed back onto the bed and
tried.

THE TIN HALO

“rm perspiring/’ he said, “and
that music doesn’t help.”

“All depends on your point of
view,” she whispered, stretching
wicked arms around his neck. Tim
almost surrendered. But visions of
the Board of Directors, the office,
cool and efficient Dinah at her desk,
and the Sunday School he attended
when he was ten suddenly flashed
before his eyes. He leaned away
from Dinah.

“No,” he stated. “I will not! I
won’t do it.”

A sound of metal bouncing against
wood rang through the room.

“What was that?” he asked.

Dinah leaned back, switched on
the bed lamp, and gasped. Tim sat
blinking in the light and just above
his head floated a neat silver-colored
halo.

“What are you staring at?” he
asked. Dinah pointed.

“That. The sound must have been
when it hit the headboard.”

Tim felt the top of his head.

“Higher,” Dinah offered.

Tim’s waving hand suddenly en-
countered the halo. He grasped it
firmly and pulled. The halo refused
to move.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A halo. So help me, Tim, you’ve
sprouted a halo.”

“Let’s not be ridiculous. Get this
contraption off me.”

“Listen, cherub,” Dinah laughed.
“You got it — you get rid of it.”

“Has this ever happened before?”
Tim demanded.

119

Dinah’s eyes narrowed danger-
ously.

“I hope you don’t think I carry on
like this every night of the week,”
she said.

“I only meant — ”

“But if I did, Mr. Weldon, I pre-
fer to think that not too many halos
would go walking out of this apart-
ment.” /

“Dinah — ”

“A fine reputation I’d have. Dinah
Cantwell, halo manufecturer. Turned
down by every cherub this side of
the Mississippi. I think I’ll have
another drink.”

“I only wondered if you knew
what to do about this thing,” Tim
muttered, trying to shake it off.

“Just don’t tell anyone you got it
here,” Dinah said airily. She squinted
at the level in the scotch bottle. Tim
walked to the bureau and stared into
the mirror for a long minute.

“This is impossible,” he stated.

“You couldn’t prove it by me,”
she grinned.

“Dinah,” Tim pleaded. “What
can we do? This is partly your fault.”

“It is not!” she retorted. “If I had
my way you — ”

“Very well. If that’s your atti-
tude.”

“Besides, it looks kind of cute.
May I feel it?”

Tim bent forward.

“Feels a little tinny,” Dinah mur-
mured. She snapped a fingernail
against it and listened to the ring.
“Sounds like tin.”

“I doubt that they make halos of

120

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tin,” Tim answered, feeling insulted.
“Perhaps a thin gage steel.”

“Too heavy,” Dinah countered.
“There would probably be a lot of
complaints from steel halo owners.
Stiff necks. Round shoulders.”

“Did you sneak an extra drink out
in the kitchen.?” Tim asked suspi-
ciously.

“You have ^a nasty little mind,”
Dinah announced haughtily. “Whose
liquor is it.?”

“That’s not the question,” Tim
said, tapping his halo. “This is the
important thing. And a drunken
redheaded secretary is of no help.”

“This is the first time you ever
got me drunk, Mr. Weldon,” Dinah
pointed out, “and I shudder to think
how you misused your advantage.”

“I did not get you drunk. You got
yourself drunk.”

“So.? You still misused — ”

“My God! Do you think of noth-
ing else.?” Tim demanded. Dinah
glanced at the halo, shrugged, and
buttoned her housecoat.

“You have a Directors meeting
tomorrow,” she said softly.

“What has that got to do with it.?
Oh-h-h!” Tim sank back onto the
bed.

“At least, they’ll be afraid to ar-
gue with you,” Dinah smiled. “You
can push the bond issue through.”

Aghast, Tim stared at his secre-
tary.

“And you could vote Jenkins out
as Treasurer,” she continued hap-
pily. “You know. I’m sure he’s
stealing the firm blind.”

“Miss Cantwell,” Tim said in a
calm, much too calm, voice. “If you
think I intend to appear tomorrow
wearing this thing, you are stark
raving mad. Fix me another drink.”

“May your drunken secretary
have one too.?”

“Yes, but keep that affair but-
toned up.”

“Momentarily, my intentions
have changed,” Dinah said. “It’s
only that I’m not sure I can carry on
this conversation while sober. I just
realized that you’re the first halo
wearer I’ve ever seen.”

“Fine,” Tim snorted. “I’m happy
that the importance of this occasion
has finally broken through.”

“Do you only have good
thoughts.?” Dinah asked.

“What.?”

“You know. The halo — all that.
Do you only have good thoughts.?”

Tim glared.

“At the moment I have a very
bad thought,” he growled.

“If you had that thought awhile
back, you wouldn’t be in this fix
now,” Dinah howled.

“Not that kind of a bad thought!”
Tim roared. He breathed deeply.
“This one involves fingers around
necks. Mine around — never mind.
Dinah dear, the halo is not desirable.
What will we do.?”

Dinah considered the matter.

“You could try your hat. I hung
it in the hall closet.”

Tim dashed for the closet and
Dinah belatedly remembered why
she should have gotten the hat her-

THE TIN HALO

I2I

self. Tim stared at the small leather
armchair that choked the hall
closet. Turning slowly, he stared
accusingly at his secretary.

“Feel the material,” he chanted
sarcastically. “It’s bad to sit down so
much. No easy chair. Take off your
pants — ”

“Your shoes,” Dinah corrected.

“ — your shoes and lie down on
the bed.”

“That chair belonged to a room-
mate who left it here for safekeep-
ing,” lied Dinah. “I wouldn’t think
of using it and wearing it out.”

“Ha, ha,” laughed Tim without
humor. “Particularly if there’s a bed
handy.”

He spun around and wrestled the
armchair out of the closet. Placing it
in the center of the room, he sat
down firmly.

“Now what.?” he demanded in
triumph.

“Your hat,” Dinah reminded him
softly.

With as much dignity as possible,
Tim returned to the closet. He came
out with a black homburg, placed
it over the halo, and looked in the
mirror. The hat had not been de-
signed for s.uch a situation.

“It floats,” Dinah said finally in a
small voice.

“Obviously.”

“There’s space between your head
and the hat.”

“I see!”

“Take it off,” Dinah commanded,
advancing on him. Tim obediently -
removed the hat and Dinah grasped

the tin halo firmly, in both hands.

“It won’t come off,” Tim said.

“But it might move up or down,”
the girl answered. She pulled down
and the halo descended until it
rested against Tim’s curly hair.

“It does,” Dinah breathed. She
released the halo and it immediately
sprang up to its original position with
a twanging noise. Tim grated his
teeth and held his ears.

“Never do that again!” he said.
“That was the dirtiest damned trick
I’ve ever known.”

“But it works,” she insisted, “like
it’s on an invisible spring. Let’s try
the hat again.”

Tim looked at her closely.

“If you twang my halo once
more — ” he warned.

“I would prefer having nothing to
do with your crumby halo,” Dinah
said crudely. “It was your idea I
should help.”

“But no twanging,” Tim insisted.

“You make it sound like a dirty
word. Put the hat on after I push the
thing down.”

Tim followed instructions and
Dinah stepped back victoriously.

“There,” she announced, brush-
ing her hands.

“You consider the matter closed?”
Tim asked incredulously. Dinah
nodded happily. Tim closed his eyes

“Do you realize I am hanging onto
this hat for dear life?” Tim contin-
ued. “If I let go, it will shoot from
my head like a cork out of a pop
gun. And it will twang.”

“I don’t particularly care if it

122

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

pkys ‘Yankee Doodle.’ I am fed up
with that tin ornament. I wash my
hands of that halo,” Dinah snapped.
“I am going to bed.”

“What about me.?^” Tim asked in
anguish.

“I suggest you go to bed too. In
the morning, we can tackle it again.”

Dinah began unbuttoning the
housecoat in a businesslike manner
and Tim spun around to face the
wall.

“Let me know when I can turn
around,” he said.

“Anytime,” Dinah answered mat-
ter-of-factly. Tim turned, then hur-
riedly faced the wall again.

“Now, lefme know when you’re
wearing your pajamas or nightgown
or whatever you wear to bed,” he
said quietly.

“You look silly holding your hat
with both hands,” Dinah laughed.
Tim let go and the hat headed for
the ceiling, the halo vibrating ring-
ingly into place.

When Tim returned from the
bathroom, the girl was already in
bed. He turned off the small lamp
and settled himself in the leather
armchair.

In the morning, Tim called the
office and let the staff know that
neither he nor Dinah would be in
today. He also postponed the Direc-
tors’ meeting. He offered no excuse.

“Do you think a scotch and soda
would go well at this time of day.?”
Dinah asked, her eyes focused
slightly over Tim’s head.

“No,” Tim answered. “Let’s get
down to business.”

“Before breakfast.?”

“Yes. I was thinking last night
. . . Let me get my hat. Now push
down the halo,” he ordered. “And
don’t release it!”

“No twanging,” Dinah promised.
She pushed the halo down against
his head and Tim clapped the hat
on. He pulled it down tightly.

“Careful. You won’t be able to
see.”

“It’s not going that far,” Tim ex-
plained. The homburg stopped just
above his eyebrows. Slowly he re-
leased the brim. It was stuck in
place.

“Bravo!” Dinah shouted. Tim
laughed.

“Now what?” the girl inquired.

“We’re driving up to Westport
after breakfast.”

“To your mother’s?” Dinah asked
slowly.

Tim nodded and grabbed the hat
as it began to go up. “Whew. I’ll
have to be careful.”

“Why your mother’s.?”,

“She’ll know what to do.”

“Why not work it out yourself,
Tim.?”

“Westport, Dinah. Mother knows
all the answers. She always has.”

“Maybe that’s why you’ve never
let her see your redheaded secre-
tary, eh.?”

“Dinah, please. I’m sure you two
will like each other,” Tim pleaded.
Dinah shrugged and started the
coffee.

THE TIN HALO

123

The blue convertible circled the
gravelled drive and stopped in front
of the garages. Dinah began to get
out and then considered something.

“Tim,” she asked thoughtfully.
“Do you think the neckline of this
dress plunges too low? I don’t want
to — ”

“Oh my God!” groaned Tim, tak-
ing a quick glance. “How come I
didn’t notice that before?”

“You never look there.”

“I should hope not. After all — ”

“Can you beat that?” Dinah in-
terrupted happily. “Here’s the ear-
ring I thought fell on the floor of the
car.”

“Must you poke around like
that?” Tim inquired uneasily, study-
ing the windows of the big house.

“I have to get it out. Would you
mind pushing up right here? I’ve
almost got it.”

Tim whipped out a handkerchief
and dabbed his forehead underneath
the tightly fitted homburg.

“Sometimes I wonder why I hired
you,” he whispered, complying with
her request. Dinah twisted toward
him angrily.

“You’ll have to sit still,” Tim
said shakily. “WeTe losing ground.
Will you please get that earring?”
Tim asked after a moment. “The
tip of my finger is perspiring.”

Dinah laughed. From the door-
way of the house came Tim’s moth-
er’s voice.

“I like that sound, Timothy. Bring
her in. When you’re through with
whatever you’re doing, of course.”

“She couldn’t see that far,” Tim
whispered hopefully. “Not without
opera glasses.”

“Got i t , ” murmured Dinah. ‘ ‘Let’s
go.”

“I don’t think I can walk.”

He crawled slowly from the car
and led Dinah into the house. Mrs.
Anthony Weldon stood waiting for
them by the big fireplace.

“Mother, this is Dinah Cantwell.
Dinah, — my mother.”

The women looked at each other.

“You’re growing up, Timothy,”
his mother observed without mov-
ing her eyes from the redheaded
secretary. “I think this occasion
calls for a drink.”

Tim gulped incredulously.

“A what?”

“A drink, Timothy.”

“But I — I thought we never —
never had whisky in this house,”
Tim stammered.

“Never when you were around,
my boy. Those were your formative
years. You were growing up.”

“But I was here only last year,”
Tim protested.

“You’re wasting time, Timothy.
Miss Cantwell and I are thirsty.
Over there in the cabinet.”

Tim moved across the room in a
haze of bewilderment.

“May I help with your earring,
Dinah?” Mrs. Weldon asked.

“Thank you, no,” Dinah smiled.
“It fell off in the car. Tim found
it.”

“I did not!” he shouted.

“Oh?”

124

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“I did not/' Tim repeated in a
lower tone. “Dinah found it."

Mrs. Weldon smiled and looked at
Dinah. “You can call me Liz."

Tim dropped a bottle which, for-
tunately, did not break. Dinah’s
laugh crept around his stomach. •

“Thank you, Liz. Would you be-
lieve it? Not once since I’ve known
Tim has he ever — ’’

Tim thrust two glasses between
them.

“I am still present, you know,"
he informed them.

“It’s difficult to think otherwise,"
his mother said. “Must you wear
your hat in the house, Tim?"

The shock of the question made
Tim miss the fact that, for the first
time, his mother had not called him
Timothy. Both hands reached up
and held the brim.

“I suppose not," he croaked.

“Then remove it," Mrs. Weldon
suggested.

“You’d better take a good sip of
that drink first, Liz," Dinah of-
fered. “I’ll join you."

Tim waited while they drank. As
they lowered their glasses, he re-
moved the hat. Beyond one eye-
brow moving down slightly, Mrs.
Weldon betrayed no surprise.

“Hmmm," she said, lifting the
glass again. She looked from Tim to
Dinah and back to the halo.

“From your expressions I surmise
this thing is real," she murmured.

“It’s a halo," Tim offered.

“A tin halo," Dinah emphasized
as Tim frowned.

“There’s a chance it may be a thin
steel," he insisted.

Dinah walked to his side and
snapped her nail against the halo.

“Listen to that," Dinah said to
Mrs. Weldon. “Tin?"

“I should imagine so," Mrs.
Weldon answered. “Of course I
haven’t listened to any other halos,
but it does sound rather tinny."

“But aren’t you surprised or
shocked?" Tim demanded.

“Well, yes," admitted his mother,
glancing toward Dinah. “I don’t
quite understand how she — well, I
mean, how this could happen with
Dinah — ’’

“Mrs. Weldon." Dinah stood
indignantly erect. “I assure you
that if your son had cooperated in
the least; if he had acted at all
decently; if he had — ’’

Dinah’s chest rose with each
protestation and Tim viewed the
deeply cut dress with apprehension.
He could feel his halo quivering
ominously.

“Obviously the halo is not Dinah’s
fault," he interrupted hastily. His
mother nodded and Dinah subsided.
“You might say I achieved it in
spite of her."

“If you had only thought twice
before acting," Mrs. Weldon com-
plained mildly.

“What do you mean?" Tim asked.

“If you had not acted foolishly,"
his mother said.

“Do you know what would have
happened if I had acted any other
way?" Tim demanded.

THE TIN HALO

125

“You wouldn’t have that,” Dinah
said, pointing.

“Yes,” agreed his mother. Tim
sat down and glared at the two
women.

“I acted as I was brought up to
act. I was decent and gentlemanly.
All my training as a youth stayed
by me strong and steadfast,” he
orated.

Mrs. Weldon got to her feet
slowly.

“Obviously I’ve been a very poor
parent,” she said sadly. Tim leaped
into the air and stared at her.

“Is this my mother?”

“Tim, don’t be melodramatic.”

“I could use a drink,” Dinah
contributed.

“Bless you,” Mrs. Weldon smiled,
heading for the cabinet. “Are you
going to marry Tim?”

“Yes,” Dinah answered. Tim
covered his eyes and sobbed.

“She is not. And I’ll have a drink
too.”

“Tim,” Liz Weldon said sud-
denly. “It just occurred to me that
you are supposed to take over the
reins of Weldon Products this fall.”

“Yes, mother,” Tim said deject-
edly. His halo felt very heavy.

“That thing you’re wearing won’t
help a bit. Has the Board seen you
yet?”

“No, they haven’t,” Dinah an-
swered for him. “But I think they
should. He could throw the fear of
God into Jenkins.”

“I absolutely refuse,” Tim
shouted.

“I can’t say I blame you,” Mrs.
Weldon said drily. “But to run the
firm you’ll have to be there. Can
you suggest anything?”

Tim shook his head and halo.

“He could wear his hat,” Dinah
said.

“Pulled down tightly over my
eyes?” Tim asked sarcastically.

“Let’s have lunch,” Mrs. Weldon
suggested. “Then, over coffee, we
can think.”

The blue convertible sped back
down the Merritt Parkway under
the capable direction of the red-
headed secretary. Tim huddled sul-
lenly against the opposite door.

“Of all the fool ideas,” he mut-
tered, fingering the tender bump on
the top of his head. Just above the
bump, the tin halo floated quietly,
still solidly in place, and only shghtly
dented on one side.

“Liz certainly swung a mean mal-
let,” Dinah said.

“It was a gavel, and I told both
of you it wouldn’t work. How long
was I out?”

“Only a few minutes. It was noth-
ing to get worked up about,” Dinah
protested.

“You don’t think so? My own
mother gets me with a gavel, and
when I open my eyes, there is my
secretary getting ready to try a
hacksaw.”

“You said some pretty dirty
words,” Dinah pointed out.

“You were starting to saw my
forehead,” Tim said grimly. “How

126

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

many drinks did the two of you
have while I lay there unconscious?”

“There you go again,” Dinah
complained. “Always denying peo-
ple little pleasures.”

“Oh-h-h,” groaned Tim, sinking
back against the seat.

As the big blue car passed beneath
the George Washington Bridge,
Dinah hummed happily.

“What now?” Tim asked sus-
piciously.

“Liz said that if I get rid of the
halo, I can marry you any time I
want,” Dinah smiled.

“Oh, she did!”

“Yes, and she’ll give us a set of
sterling, too. Twelve place settings.”

Tim leaned forward.

“Did she suggest how you are to
go about this? A larger gavel? A
sharper saw?”

Dinah shook her head.

“None of those. This involves
logic.”

Tim edged back and placed one
protecting hand on his halo.

“Is there a time limit on your
deal?”

“I hope by Monday morning,”
Dinah announced.

“Well,” Tim relaxed. “I guess
mother won’t have to buy any
silver.”

“Oh, she ordered it before we
left. I had to pick out the style.”

“Now, wait a minute!”

“You’ll like it, Tim. Simple but
rich looking.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Big forks, and the spoons are — ”

“Not the silver! What about this
logic?”

Dinah laughed softly.

“If at first you don’t — ”

“Now, wait — !”

Tim held on to the tin halo with
both hands as the blue car sped
toward Dinah’s. It seemed to be
bending slightly.

FANVET CONVENTION

The Fanvets will hold its fifth anniversary convention on Sunday, April
17th, at Werdermann Hall, 3rd Avenue and East i6th Street, New York
City. The list of guest speakers will include Ted Sturgeon, John Campbell,
Damon Knight, Ed Emsh and others. Rare SF films will be shown, and
there will be a giant auction of rare first editions, autographed copies of
SF books, original sf art and other collectors’ items. All profits from the
auction will go to the Fanvets association to be used for the purchase of sf
books for Veterans’ hospitals and GI posts throughout the world. For fur-
ther details write to Ray Van Houten, % Fandom House, PO Box 2331,
Paterson 23, N. J.

Imagine

by FREDRIC BROWN

Imagine ghosts, gods and devils.

Imagine hells and heavens, cities floating in the sky and cities sunken
in the sea.

Unicorns and centaurs. Witches, warlocks, Jinns and banshees.

Angels and harpies. Charms and incantations. Elementals, familiars,
demons.

Easy to imagine, all of those things: mankind has been imagining
them for thousands of years.

Imagine spaceships and the future.

Easy to imagine; the future is really coming and there’ll be space-
ships in it.

Is there then anything that’s hard to imagine?

Of course there is.

Imagine a piece of matter and yourself inside it, yourself aware,
thinking and therefore knowing you exist, able to move that piece of
matter that you’re in, to make it sleep or wake, make love or walk uphill.

Imagine a universe — infinite or not, as you wish to picture it — with
a billion, billion, billion suns in it.

Imagine a blob of mud whirling madly around one of those suns.
Imagine yourself standing on that blob of mud, whirli/ig with it,
whirling through time and space to an unknown destination.

Imagine!

READERS’ BOOK SERVICE

Below is a list of many of the most important science fiction books of the past year which you may now
order postpaid through F&SF. In addition, you may order any hard-cover book reviewed in-this magas
zine during the past year. (Sorry, but we cannot oder this service on paper-bound books.)

NOVELS

2 CAVES OF STEEL Isaac Asimov

Doubleday $2.95

3 PRELUDE TO SPACE

Arthur C. Clarke
Gnome $2.50

58 EARTHLIGHT

Arthur C. Clarke
Ballantine $2.75

4 MISSION OF GRAVITY

Hal Clement
Doubleday $2.95

28 ONE IN THREE HUNDRED

J. T. McIntosh
Doubleday $2.95

47 THE BIG BALL OF WAX

Shepherd Mead
Simon & Schuster $3.50

48 SHADOWS IN THE SUN

Chad Oliver
Ballantine $2.00

42 TO WALK THE NIGHT

William Sloane
Dodd, Mead $2.75

FANTASY NOVELS

49 THE BROKEN SWORD

Poul Anderson
Abelard'Schuman $2.75

11 UNDER THE INFLUENCE

Geoffrey Kerr
Lippincott $3.50

12 THE VICTORIAN CHAISE

LONGUE Marghanita Laski

Houghton-Mifflin $2.75

ANTHOLOGIES

50 THE BEST SCIENCE FICTION

STORIES: 1954

E. F. Bleiler & T. E. Dikty
Fell $3.50

59 BEST FROM F & SF: 4 th Series

Anthony Boucher
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15 SCIENCE-FICTION THINKING

MACHINES Groff Conklin
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16 PORTALS OF TOMORROW

August Derleth
Rinehart $3.75

51 BEYOND THE BARRIERS OF

SPACE & TIME

Judith Merril
Random $2.95

60 STAR SCIENCE-FICTION

STORIES No. 3 Frederik Pohl
Ballantine $2.00

SHORT STORIES

38 ANGELS AND SPACESHIPS

Fredric Brown
Dutton $2.75

61 THE SWORD OF WELLERAN

Lord Dunsany
Devin -Adair $3.00

26 THE SINISTER RESEARCHES
OF C. P. RANSOM

H. Nearing, Jr.
Doubleday $2.95

62

39

THE OTHER PLACE

J. B. Priestley
Harper $3.00

DEEP SPACE Eric F. Russell
Fantasy Press $3.00

NON-FICTION

34 SKYROCKETING INTO THE
UNKNOWN C. Coombs
Morrow $4.00

52 THE MAN IN THE THICK

LEAD SUIT Daniel Lang
Oxford $3.50

21 ENGINEERS’ DREAMS

Willy Ley

Viking $3.50

57 WHO’S WHO IN OZ Jack Snow
Reilly & Lee $3.75

41 INDEX TO THE SCIENCE-
FICTION MAGAZINES,
1926-1950 E^nald B. Day
Perri $6.50

JUVENILES

23 HALF MAGIC Ed. Eager

Harcourt, Brace $2.75

40 STAR BEAST Robert A. Heinlein
Scribner’s $2.50

HUMOR

53 HOMEBODIES Charles Addams

Simon & Schuster $2.95

44 MAX Giovanetti

Macmillan $2.95

45 POGO STEPMOTHER GOOSE

54 INCOMPLEAT POGO

Walt Kelly

Simon & Schuster each $1.00

55 THE FEMALE APPROACH

Ronald Searle
Knopf $3.50

I have circled below the numbers listed alongside the books I wish to order. □

I would also like to order other books reviewed in F&SF during the past year which do not appear on
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I am enclosing a check Q money order □ (no cash or stamps) in the amount of $

and understand that the books will be sent me postpaid.

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